365
by LKJones1986
Summary: Janice Hargreaves was the first person to notice a body falling from the sky. At 58 years old, she'd never seen anybody die before; after that night, she hoped she never would again.
1. Chapter 1

**365**

**January (2014)**

Janice Hargreaves was the first person to notice a body falling from the sky. At 58 years old, she'd never seen anybody die before; after that night, she hoped she never would again. She wasn't a nurse or a doctor, so there wasn't anything she could do but look on in horror. She couldn't stop looking, in fact. Despite the ugliness of the scene, despite the blood and the pink flesh and the splinters of bone, she literally couldn't tear her eyes away. It's funny because I'd been up on the rooftop for several minutes, but she didn't look up until it was too late. If she'd looked up slightly earlier, she might have shouted:

'Don't do it!'

And those three words might have been enough.

Official date of death: 01/01/14. Official time of death: 00:00:37am. This provided a further blow for Janice, as she'd always considered 37 to be her favourite number. Because of me, Janice's favourite number wasn't 37 anymore.

**January (2013)**

'So, if I could just go through the main details one final time... At approximately what time did the incident take place?'

'Just after midnight. We didn't get into the club we'd planned to spend the countdown in, so we were walking to a different club just off West Street.'

'And what's the first thing you remember?'

'Some big fucker jumped on me from behind. He shoved me forward onto the pavement, face first, and sort of sat on my back with his knees pushing into my shoulder blades. He told me to hand over my wallet or he'd stick a knife in my spine. Charming bloke.'

'And at this point, the friend you were with, a Mr Jay Phelps, he…' She stopped and averted her eyes from mine, busying herself in her notebook.

'Yes, he ran off. Without looking back. Ok? He left me to be mugged and God knows what else. I think we've been through that detail with a fine-toothed comb already, haven't we? Don't worry, I'm not going to nominate him for a 'Friend of the Year' award or anything.'

'Please try to remain calm, sir. We need to ensure we have all the details so that we have more chance of catching this man. What happened next?'

This, without a doubt, had to be my worst New Year ever. And, believe me, I've had my fair share of shit New Years.

_Starting 2013 as the victim of a violent mugging: Check_

_Debilitating hangover: Check_

_Woke up alone: Check_

_Abandoned by best friend when attacked at knife-point: Check_

_Friends: See above_

_Job that I despise: Check_

_Girlfriend: Let's not even go there_

I'd always found the process of setting a New Year's resolution pretty easy; the only part I found moderately difficult was deciding which _exact_ area of my crappy life to focus on (and ultimately lose interest in fixing by February). The eventful New Year's Eve of 2012 made my choice easier in a way: I needed some new friends.

I heaved myself out of bed in search of coffee (hangover ritual: stage 1). Jay's clothes were strewn across the living room floor, which riled me instantly. When you live in a flat the size of a postage stamp, even the smallest amount of mess can induce claustrophobia. Despite having explained this idea to Jay, the dickhead still insisted on littering every inch of shared floor-space with his belongings.

I was pouring my coffee when I heard him on the stairs. The interior staircase leading up to the flat was black and metallic. Along with the slate-grey walls, the entrance hall didn't exactly make visitors feel welcome. Not that I cared. I didn't get many visitors. Unfortunately though, the metal stairs also meant that I could hear every single sound made on that staircase: the 'Diet Coke' couple from number 10 having an argument about whose turn it was to pay for the cocaine on which night; 'Old Shit' from number 8 tottering down with her irritating, yappy dog every night so that he could do his business outside our front door and she could pretend to be too old and decrepit to pick it up. I'd never bothered learning any of the neighbours' real names; they didn't seem like my kind of people. The 'Diet Coke' couple were probably both in their early thirties, but the fact that they spent 95% of their time high on some kind of substance meant they looked closer to fifty. I didn't see much of the woman but the guy was pretty terrifying. His skin was grey and sallow, and he had black bags under his eyes that were so big, he'd probably need to pay additional luggage allowance if he ever boarded a plane. Together, the two of them probably weighed about ten-stone, hence the 'Diet' part. As for 'Old Shit', well…her nickname was pretty straightforward.

I knew it was Jay coming up the stairs because of the footsteps. Weighing considerably more than anyone else in the building, his sound sort of carried. Also, he had to pause in between every seven or eight steps to catch his breath. Every time he stopped, you could hear this wheezing, panting sound - like one of those really old, slow, overweight dogs that only gets up off its fat backside to see what's in its bowl. He was livid when he first moved in and realised the building didn't have a lift. Not many other people would consider four floors to be 'lift-worthy'. My block was one of five multi-coloured towers that used to be council flats; that's why the rent was so cheap. I lived in the mucky brown one; that's why the rent was even cheaper. The one and only time Mum visited, she described the colour of it as 'burnt umber'. She was always doing that – trying to dress my life up so that it was less excruciating for her. It irritated me.

I could hear Jay gasping away at the top of the stairs. He seemed to be moving even more slowly than usual. I suppose you're unlikely to hurry if you're on the way to see someone who's just about ready to punch you in the face. I leaned against the hob, trying to decide exactly how honest to be about how much he'd pissed me off by leaving me for dead. Finally, the door swung open.

'Si? You home?' As I heard his voice, it suddenly struck me; I should've made sure I was out all day. In fact, I should've left the house for a few days and totally disappeared – turned off my phone - then he'd have been _really_ worried. Then he'd have felt even worse about what he did. Hindsight is such a bastard sometimes. 'Oh, there you are.' Jay's cheeks flushed even deeper with the embarrassment of finding me in the kitchen. He'd probably been hoping to sneak in unnoticed and lock himself in his room until his guilty hangover cleared. 'So… How are you feeling?'

_Hmmm, how am I feeling? Well, Jay, I'm feeling on top of the bloody world! I'm actually struggling to decide which part of last night was my favourite: the part where we couldn't get in anywhere for the midnight countdown because you were too drunk to stand up straight and had vomit on your t-shirt (which is still there, by the way); the part where an aggressive stranger pressed a knife against my back and stole my wallet and my watch; the part where my best mate ran off and left me to be attacked; or the part where I spent four hours in a police station answering the same inane questions over and over again._

'I've been better.'

'Look, man,' he started, pausing for breath before he could continue. He was still recovering from his stair-climbing expedition. 'I'm really sorry about last night.'

'No big deal,' I lied. 'I'm sure anyone else would've done the same.' _Anyone else who is also a massive twat, that is._

'Yeah. Maybe. Are you in a lot of pain? Your lip looks pretty swollen.'

I shrugged. The truth was, I had taken so many painkillers when I'd returned from the police station that I wasn't really feeling anything other than the usual nauseous haze of a hangover.

'Do you want a bacon butty?' Bacon - hangover ritual: stage 2. He really must have been feeling guilty; he hadn't offered to make me so much as a cup of coffee since the day he'd moved in. I shook my head and left the room in silence, grabbing another handful of painkillers on my way out. Some people would've cracked at that point, would've told him that everything was OK and that he was forgiven. I was prepared to let him suffer at least a little longer.

I'd contemplated suicide before. Frequently. I'd even been online and researched the best methods, i.e. the ones with the highest fatality rating. To me, there was no point in trialling something like an overdose of pills when most reports showed it to have less than a 10% success rate. It made me wonder whether people who chose such methods were actually just pitifully seeking attention. Surely, if they were serious, they'd have picked a more successful method; that was just common sense. I'd never actually selected one particular method, but I had the top three memorised just in case.

The thought of suicide plagued me like a malignant boomerang; it would fade into the background for a while, sometimes for months at a time, but it would never go away entirely. It probably didn't help that I found the idea of ending it all so damn invigorating. I often found myself caught in a web of daydreams at work. Down one spine of the web, it would all end with BANG – brains on the wall. Down another spine, SPLAT – head on the pavement like a mouldy watermelon. Ironically, being able to cherry-pick the details of my own death was one of the only things that made me excited to be alive.

That night, I found myself pondering the subject once again. It might have been the thought of a whole new, empty year ahead of me that provoked me into finally voicing my ideas out loud. (On second thought, it was more likely the spliff Jay had left outside my bedroom door that afternoon as an apology.) I paddled tentatively into the shallow end. 'Do you ever get the feeling that you were destined to achieve something greater than you have?' Jay's eyes lingered on the television screen. Tonight's particularly thrilling episode of _Coronation Street_ focused on the woes of that Gail Platt character. You know? The one whose face looks like a vacuum pack that's had all the air sucked out of it? She was prattling on about something clearly far more important to Jay than my problems. I continued, despite my awareness that it was probably more useful to discuss my philosophical musings on the meaning of life with a garden snail. 'I don't mean like suffering with delusions of grandeur; I mean going to University, spending thousands of pounds on your education and then working behind a till at Asda, even though you always dreamed of being an astronaut or, like, the big M.D. of a finance company.'

'Mmmm,' he responded. I'd like to say that I was receiving some acknowledgement, but I think he was just basking in the pleasure of his latest mouthful of Budweiser.

'Take me, for example,' I persevered, '£20,000 of University fees and aspiring visions of a career in journalism. That wasn't even an unrealistic aim! I mean, I'd always been pretty good at English. Yet, a few years later, where did I find myself? Working in a pub and opting to train as a teacher because I didn't know what else to do. All this after years and years of teachers, lecturers and other ignorant bloody adults filling my head with the idea that I could achieve anything if I got my head down and filled my exam results sheet with As and A*s? It's all bullshit!' I banged my fist adamantly on the sofa's stained arm.

'B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t,' Jay repeated, extending each syllable in the hope that his affirmation would shut me up so that he could continue his viewing in peace.

'I mean, no offence mate, but if I'm still sitting here this time next year, stoned and torn between watching _Coronation Street_ or watching you stuff your face with Kettle Chips, belch and scratch your arse, then I really would rather be dead.' In fairness, after I'd said it, I realised it'd be pretty difficult for someone _not_ to take offence to that.

'Yeah. Fair point,' he snorted, plunging his chubby fingers back into the family-sized pack of salt and vinegar. With that, I retired to bed with the deep-rooted frustration of a teenage boy who'd just been refused sex from a sure-thing prom date. My first attempt at telling my best friend I was planning to commit suicide hadn't gone entirely as planned. I needed to reassure myself that I was serious, so I drew up a little agreement. It took a little while longer than it should have done, as I became distracted by the pattern of the wispy hairs on the backs of my knuckles. And by thinking about how a pen manages to release just the _right_ amount of ink at one time. And by how incredibly _white_ my piece of paper was. And how white could possibly be created by So. Many. Other. Colours. (This process probably attributed to the fact that I got so little done at University – I'd spent about 70% of my time stoned.)

Suicide Pact

I, Simon James Bramwell, hereby declare that my life is shit. Nothing good ever happens to me, and nothing ever will. I therefore promise that I will take my own life at some point during 2013 and do everyone around me a favour.

Signed: S. J. Bramwell

Dated: 01/01/13

By the time we were eating breakfast the next morning (it may have been 2pm but it still counted as breakfast if it was the first meal of the day), I'd given up all hope of approaching the matter with any subtlety.

'I'm going to kill myself.' I just came out with it. Just like that. It stopped Jay right in the middle of his boring rant about how his wanker of a boss had put him down for a 10-hour shift on his first day back after New Year. He halted right in his tracks and looked at me.

_God, this thing could be conversational dynamite._ _I might never have to listen to anyone's shit stories ever again._

'Yeah, I know. If Harris doesn't lay off, I'll join you.' He flicked to the next page of his newspaper.

'No, Jay, I'm serious. I'm sick of my crappy life. I'm sick of nothing ever, ever going right for me. I'm sick of my job. I'm sick of this tiny fucking flat that's barely big enough for one person to live in, let alone two. I'm sick of looking around and seeing a hundred million people who are doing better than me at everything. I've had enough.'

I waited a moment to allow the gravity of my words to sink in. I waited for the water to swell in his eyes, building and building like an orchestra moving towards a crescendo, until it could no longer be held in and instead came careering down his stubbly cheeks in torrents. I waited for him to pull me into a dramatic man-hug, reassuring me that I had everything to live for and that he wouldn't know what to do without me. I waited.

'Well, you're a ray of bloody bright sunshine this morning, aren't you?' he snorted. And continued to obliterate his mountain of toast.

'Don't tell me you were fucking serious the other day?' Jay barged into my room bleating. He was holding my notebook in his hand. I put down Aaron Moorfoot's illegible attempt at summing up Seamus Heaney's _Mid-Term Break_ in 100 words and braced myself. 'Ok,' Jay began, turning the pages with his thick, sausage-shaped fingers, 'Let's take a trip down craaaaazy lane, shall we? Ah, here we are.' He began reciting my notes.

Most successful methods:

(Ignoring less successful methods, i.e. self-harm, overdose, etc. due to low fatality rates)

Firearm – success rate 90%+ but no gun licence

Hanging – success rate under 90% + too slow/painful?

Jumping from height – success rate only 60%+ but increases w/height of building

Jumping into path of moving vehicle (train?) – success rate 90%+ but problems for driver

'What the bloody hell is all this, Simon?'

It took me a while to calm him down; there was a lot of pacing, some very energetic arm waving and a _lot_ of swearing. But we got there eventually. I tried to explain the way I'd been feeling in a rational way – I wanted him to see that I wasn't crying out for help or making some big, dramatic gesture. I told him, honestly, how pointless I felt my life was: I got up, I went to work, I ate and I went to sleep. I wasn't achieving anything of any importance. I hadn't achieved any of the goals I had set for myself as an ambitious teen. I didn't enjoy seeing my family and I had very few friends. The thought of enduring 50 or 60 more years of dreary, futile repetition in a life I despised sent a cold shiver down my spine. I just wanted out. And soon.

Eventually, Jay's flushed face cooled back to its usual pallid white (he was a gaming nerd who rarely saw sunlight) and he was able to speak at a normal volume. 'So, you've even considered how you'd do it?' he asked, pointing once more towards my no-longer-private notebook. I nodded. 'And what did you mean with that 'problems for driver' stuff?' He was pointing at the final item on the page.

'Well, I mean, can you imagine anything worse? Poor bugger would just be doing his thing, sipping his coffee, biting into his jam doughnut and SLAM - a body splats down in front of him before he can even lift his foot to the brakes. Nah, poor guy would get that post-traumatic stress disorder probably. I know I can be a selfish bastard at times, but I'm not that bloody inconsiderate.'

He paused for a moment and nodded his head slowly. 'Shit. You really have thought about this quite a lot then?'

'Yeah. Well, it's interesting, isn't it?'

'How, exactly, would you call killing yourself _interesting_?' he asked.

'We're living in a time where so many things are out of our control, but just think about how much power we have over our own fate. Each one of us is completely in charge of our own life and, if we want, our own death. We can choose to do whatever we want with our time here. If we want to abuse our bodies with drink and drugs, we can. If we want to starve or dehydrate ourselves, we can. If we want to end it all, we can. Just like that. Every single moment that we spend alive just inches us closer to the death that we all know is coming. A death that we can choose to embrace any time we want. Fascinating.'

For a long moment, Jay paused. He furrowed his brows and seemed to be struggling with something. 'You know there are people you can…talk to, right? People who are trained to deal with this sort of…stuff.' His voice had turned to a quiet mumble and he seemed to be finding the laces on his shoes absolutely fascinating. His hands were clenched into awkward fists.

'Mate, I'm not depressed.'

'Well, forgive me for making assumptions there Si, but you are talking about topping yourself. It doesn't exactly take Sherlock bloody Holmes to jump to that conclusion, does it?'

I wasn't depressed; I'd never have admitted it to Jay, or anyone else for that matter, but I had spent a lot of time on suicide forums searching for other people who felt the same. Jesus, _those_ people were depressed, not me. They kept talking about this feeling of darkness, this cloud that hung over them, how difficult it was to get up in the morning, etc., etc. I didn't feel that way at all. For me, suicide was just a way of speeding up the inevitable. For years, I had felt as though I was simply moving through every day without a purpose – just going through the motions so that I could get the day over with, go to sleep, and do it all again the next morning. What was the actual _point_ in any of it?

There hadn't been a particular turning point or traumatic event I'd suffered that had made me consider such questions. My childhood contained its problems, but whose doesn't? I just couldn't seem to get my head around what the actual _point_ of my existence was. Life just seemed so…difficult. Complicated. I was living in a society where, in order to be deemed a success, you needed a nice house and a shiny Audi sitting on the drive. And five ponies lined up in your own private stable. I didn't have any of those things. Worse than that, I didn't see the point in having them either. Death? Well, that seemed much easier. Much more simple. You do it, you're gone: it's over. Plus, death's inevitable anyway; that's a fact. So, why's everybody so hell bent on trying to put it off? We're all going to end up in the same place, regardless of how many shiny Audis we have. I think I'd always wondered, in the back of my mind, whether it was worth enduring all the problems that life brings when I could just skip to the end - skip straight to death. So, when I really thought about it, suicide, for me, was just a matter of convenience.

I left the room without a word; I was worried which psychiatrist Jay would have me referred to if I shared my actual thoughts on the subject. He could go and 'Sherlock Holmes' someone else's problems.

With the Christmas holidays over, life returned to pretty much normal. I was back at school and Jay was working a lot of late shifts, so we didn't see much of each other. He didn't return to the suicide conversation; I think he secretly hoped that I'd just forget about it. He even tried to take my mind off the subject by resurrecting a favourite practical joke of mine. It had all started on the day that Jay moved in. We chose to lubricate the social friction between us that first evening with shit T.V. and a few too many beers. During an advert break, one of those chavvy 'We Buy Your Gold' type adverts came on and Jay relayed a story he'd seen online about the funny items people sent in for valuation. And so, an idea was borne. That night, we drunkenly penned three or four letters and sent them off but had failed to maintain the practice since. Well, until now:

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

15/01/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

We are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the _Cadbury's Wispa Gold_ bar that you sent to us through the post, due to the fact that it is a chocolate bar and therefore contains no actual gold.

Our records indicate that this is not the first refusal letter you have received from us, and I would therefore like to take this opportunity to remind you of the purpose of 'Gold for Cash'. Our company offers customers the opportunity to sell their gold ('gold' here relating only to the precious metal) for its cash value. Therefore, we are in the market for genuine gold products, e.g. jewellery, coins, etc.

We hope that this explains the purpose of our company and we look forward to your business in the future, should you have any gold (of the precious metal variety) to sell.

Yours sincerely,

Mr D. Southwell

(Customer Service Representative)

If my suicide announcement had just been a sad and lonely cry out for attention, Jay would've been doing a great job of distracting me. Unfortunately for him, I remained resolute.

Januarys at school were always a struggle. January 2013 was no exception. Firstly, it was the going to work in the dark and leaving work in the dark that set everyone's bad mood receptors onto turbo mode. Secondly, I never found teenagers more annoying than when they returned from the Christmas break. Every year without fail, they swarmed in all hyped up over their Christmas presents, bursting at the seams to show off who'd been given the most expensive version of the iPhone or designer coat. The part I found the most irritating was the fact that most of these kids came to school in dirty uniforms and lived in a two-bedroomed house with their six siblings (mostly from different fathers) and their mother who sat around on her fat arse, smoking twenty fags a day and moaning that the Government didn't give her enough benefit money. But it was always critical that her little brats had Sky T.V. and the latest mod cons to show off about at school.

January also signalled the inevitable onslaught of parents' evenings. At Conifer High, it was deemed useless to hold a parents' evening in the first term, as teachers 'could not possibly know their students well enough in the short time-frame from September to December'. That was absolute bullshit; I had absolutely no interest in getting to know any of the little brats sitting in my classroom year on year. Whether it was September, January or June, the details of their lives remained insignificant to me.

First up was Year 9 parents' evening: for me, this one was relatively pain-free, as most of the kids in 9SF were fairly decent human beings. For me, this year's 'SF' stood for 'Standard Fare': the group contained your typical mixture of class clowns, chatty girls, quiet swots and disruptive idiots. We had been reading _To Kill A Mockingbird_ and some of the goody-two-shoes had bought the book and read ahead. I hated it when they did that.

George Lomax's mum was 15 minutes early for her 4pm appointment and looked at me with disdain when I wandered down at 4:05 from the staffroom with coffee in hand. I'd met her before, when I'd taught George in Year 7. She was a bitch back then as well. Mrs Lomax was the scholarly sort who thought she could do a better job of teaching her son than any of the staff at Conifer could. The parents in her category were the ones who'd wanted their children to attend the highly-rated Goodhold Academy down the road but just missed out on the catchment area; that left their children attending Conifer instead. Conifer did _not_ rank in the city's top schools. This, as she had informed me during our first meeting, was _not_ to her liking.

I made my way down to the back of the Assembly Hall past the rows and rows of small, square, wooden desks and cheap, plastic chairs. At parents' evening, the staff desks were laid out first by department/subject area, and then alphabetically. For some reason, English always ended up at the very back of the hall next to Science, despite the fact that we made up two of the three core subjects. As a teacher of a core subject, you could guarantee you'd have double the number of appointments than those of a Design &amp; Technology teacher, and quadruple those of someone from P.E.

'So glad to see you're feeling relaxed enough to take a tea break between appointments, Mr Bramwell. School not working you quite hard enough, hmmm?' Mrs Lomax inquired as I sat down opposite her and George.

I smiled and gritted my teeth. Ordinarily, I might have at least feigned some remorse, but since I knew I wasn't going to be teaching her darling George for much longer (nor anyone else's little darlings, for that matter) I was finding it hard to care.

'So, I see on his report that Georgey's only been graded as 'Good' for his effort in English. What on Earth stopped him from attaining 'Excellent'?'

_Well, Mrs Poker-Up-Your-Arse-Lomax, that would probably be because I couldn't be bothered to fill in the data sheet properly and I just highlighted the entire student effort column as 'Good', so that I could go home at 3:35._ 'Good question.' _Hmmm, pause for thinking time. Say something vague._ 'Unfortunately, I feel that George just isn't giving his all to the subject at the moment.'

'Well that's simply not good enough, Georgey!' she bellowed. The parents at the next table looked over with wide eyes. Her voice was almost as big as her ego. Little George shrank down in his chair. 'What does he need to do in order to improve? Whatever it is, it must be done. Immediately!'

When I first met George, back in Year 7, he'd been having a tough time because his dad had just left. I vividly remember the day he re-entered my classroom, two years later, and I asked him how things were at home. He told me that his mum had re-married; they were really happy but it was difficult sometimes because the man she'd married was totally deaf. I remember how the hot, brown liquid seeped through the white cotton of his shirt when I spat my coffee over him laughing. Deaf! Of course! Well, he'd have to be.

'Oh I do apologise – are we boring you Mr Bramwell?' Mrs Lomax asked.

_Shit. Must stop tuning out._

'Sorry, where were we?'

'I said,' she began, rolling her eyes back in her head and exhaling loudly, 'What does he need to do in order to improve?'

I'd learned a trick during my first year of teaching. When dealing with awkward parents who ask you questions you don't know the answers to, always turn the question back round onto their kid. Worked every time. 'George, what is it _you_ think you need to do in order to improve?' I probed.

'Erm…I guess I could maybe put my hand up more in lessons?' he guessed. Bless him. The poor kid spent so much time with his hand in the air that I was surprised his right arm hadn't turned blue and dropped off.

'Good lad. Let's see that happening from tomorrow, shall we? Lovely to see you again, Mrs Lomax,' I lied, standing up and shaking her hand.

Watching her back as she left the hall, I couldn't help but wonder whether people like her would come to my funeral. Was there a way to ban people from attending? Could you make it an invite-only affair? I made a note in my planner to look into it. I liked making notes in my planner during parents' evening; I would pull my brows together and nod when I did it, as though I was writing something really important and professional. It gave the parents sitting around the hall the impression that I gave a shit.

By the time I got home, it was gone 9 o'clock and I still had marking to do, so I resolved to give out 10 A grades, 15 B grades and 6 C grades somewhat at random to speed the process up. I was halfway through picking my favourite kids from 10XE, to whom I would award the A grades, when Jay shuffled out of his room.

'So, I, erm, I dropped by the doctors' surgery today.' He was doing that strange mumbling thing he did whenever he was uncomfortable. The first time I experienced it was when I walked in on him masturbating to internet porn using Fairy Liquid and a marigold glove; he'd mumbled something about getting distracted on his way to do the washing up. I knew that I didn't want to listen to whatever was coming next, so I refused to lift my gaze from my pile of marking.

'I picked up some stuff that I thought you might find interesting,' he continued. Onto the table dropped a large Pizza Hut takeaway box and a selection of bright orange and yellow leaflets featuring photographs of old people smiling and waving. I was hoping that the pizza was for me but I should've known better. In a rare attempt to be courteous towards Jay, I took my eyes from the page briefly enough to scan the top few leaflet titles:

Feeling Blue? Here's What You Can Do!

Mind Over Mood.

Beating those Blues.

'Seriously, mate, we've been over this.'

'Simon,' he began, lifting a slice of Meat Feast into his mouth, 'I'm not saying you're actually, like, _depressed_ or whatever. Maybe you're just feeling a little bit down in the dumps and you need a pick me up? Look, in here it suggests trying a new hobby - something active?' He leafed through one of the yellow leaflets with his greasy fingers. 'What about mountain biking?' I was pretty sure he could tell by the look on my face that I was not about to start biking up any bloody mountains because some idiot behind the pages of _The Five Minute Guide to Happiness_ thought it was a good idea. Still, I stuck my middle finger up at him just to be sure my message was received.

'It also says here that keeping a diary might help. You're supposed to track your feelings throughout the day and to write down any good bits and any bad bits; that way, you can recognise the positive things that are happening in your life as well as the negative,' he read aloud.

'You're the boss,' I replied, as I obediently ripped an empty page out of Rosie Walker's book and began to scribble.

Day 1

Jay is making me write a diary. I FEEL angry about this. I FEEL that this exercise is pointless. I FEEl that Jay is a dickhead.

'Simon,' he stopped me, 'don't be a wanker. Just give it a go. I mean a proper go. That way, at least if you do throw yourself off a bloody cliff, I won't have anything to feel guilty about because I did try.' I really didn't understand why he'd think that he had anything to feel guilty about regardless, but I didn't want to get into it. I put my diary entry to one side and buried my head back into marking Year 9's books. Unfortunately, Jay wasn't ready to give up on me. 'Look, there's a little quiz thing in here; let's just both do it and see what the results are. Okay?'

'You do realise that anyone could be diagnosed with depression if you rely on a useless thing like that? Everyone's miserable deep down, Jay. Some people are just more honest about it than others. Realising your life is shit and accepting it doesn't make you depressed.'

He ignored me and began reading the questions aloud.

Question 1: How often do you feel little or no pleasure in pursuing everyday activities?

A) Almost every day

B) A few times a week

C) A few times a month

D) Rarely

E) Never

He paused for my response. I continued to ignore him. 'Ok, well my answer would depend on what 'activity' they're talking about. Like, if it's doing the washing up, it'd be every day, but if it's eating dinner, it'd be never.' He paused for my assistance. I continued to ignore him. 'So, I'll go for something in the middle: a few times a week.' I think he was hoping that he'd wear me down if he just carried on.

Question 2: How often do you feel down or hopeless?

A) Almost every day

B) A few times a week

C) A few times a month

D) Rarely

E) Never

Jay decided that nobody could say they were happy all the time, and therefore he would have to go for option C.

Question 3: How often do you have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep or sleeping too much?

A) Almost every day

B) A few times a week

C) A few times a month

D) Rarely

E) Never

'I'd say my sleep patterns are pretty normal…'

'What time did you get up today?' I finally decided to interject.

'Around ten.'

'Jay.' I tilted my head and frowned; I wasn't going to let him get away with this.

'No, seriously! Ok, it might have been half ten?'

'Jay.'

'What, Simon?'

'Jay.'

'3pm.'

'There we go.'

'Alright, smart arse. A few times a week.' He paused to lick the garlic butter off his fat fingertips. I was surprised to see that fingertips could even become fat. Stretching his arms above his head, he yawned. 'Christ, even talking about sleep makes me tired.'

Question 4: How often do you feel exhausted and have very little energy?

A) Almost every day

B) A few times a week

C) A few times a month

D) Rarely

E) Never

'Oh for fuck's sake,' he moaned. 'This is just stupid. Everybody's tired, aren't they? It's going to try and tell me _I'm_ depressed next! Yes, fine, a few times a week.'

'Jay.'

'Simon?'

'Jay.'

'Oh fine, Simon! Every fucking day. Happy now?' I loved sniffing out his bullshit. It really was the highlight of my day.

Question 5: How often are you experiencing a poor appetite or overeating?

A) Almost every day

B) A few times a week

C) A few times a month

D) Rarely

E) Never

At this point, he threw his pizza box against the wall. 'Oh this thing's just stupid. I'm going to bed.'

And so we established that Jay's incessant gorging and lethargic attitude to life meant that he, in fact, was suffering with 'depression'. In other words, he could take his quiz results and toddle off to join the back of the queue at the Doctors' surgery, ready to receive his handful of Prozac designed to magically cover up his problems. Perhaps he was starting to see my point.

'I've been thinking…' Jay began one cold Tuesday night over pizza and beer. 'I just don't get why you, of all people, would want to kill yourself.'

_Here we go again._ 'Mate, I've already explained-'

'No, no, I mean, you've explained your reasons. But I can't help thinking that, out of the two of us, it's really _me_ who should be giving up, not you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' I asked.

'Well, just look at me for a start: I'm a fat, hairy bastard; I'm lazy; I've got the same shit job I've had since I was 17; I'm single, obviously, when you look at the rest of the evidence; and I'm pretty sure my V plates will grow back again if I don't have a shag soon.'

I couldn't help but laugh; all of the things he'd said were technically true.

'I'm serious,' he continued. 'You've got everything going for you. Gay jokes aside, you're a good-looking bloke. You've got a family who care about you and a steady job. Maybe if you looked on the bright side a little bit, you'd feel differently about this whole...idea.'

He avoided the word suicide like he avoided eating fruit or doing exercise. He would call it my 'idea' or my 'plan'. It was as though saying the actual word might literally push me over the edge.

'Look, I know the diary thing was a bit of a stupid suggestion but I do think you could maybe give a bit of thought to all the positive stuff you've got going on. Maybe you could keep a little list or something, like a pros and cons sort of thing? You might be surprised how many positives there are.'

I promised him I'd think about it, and I did. It was actually in the process of doing so that I came up with the idea of killing myself on New Year's Eve. It was perfect! For a start, I'd always hated New Year. Every December, people reflect back over the last shitty 364 days of their lives, fantasising about how brilliant the next year will be. Around New Year, people say stupid things like: 'Things can only get better'; these idiots genuinely seem to convince themselves that's true. Yet, if you fast-forward another 12 months, they've had another royal shitter of a year and they're saying it all over again.

The night of New Year's Eve itself is another problem entirely. Every year, it's like losing your virginity: you build up and up to it in your head for so long that you actually manage to convince yourself that it's going to be amazing. In fact, it's going to be better than amazing: it's going to be flawless. Life-changing. In reality, you're left with a massive anti-climax and five minutes messy, uncomfortable disappointment. OK, who am I kidding? Three minutes. So, by killing myself on New Year's Eve, I figured I'd be giving myself a countdown to actually look forward to for a change.

Also, by giving myself the rest of the year, I could acknowledge Jay's point and ensure that I wasn't making a hasty decision. What if, after all, 2013 actually _was_ the year that the Universe decided to give me a break? What if, for example, Gisele Bündchen came knocking at my door, naked, having lost all her clothes in a house fire, and begging me for a warm bed to sleep in? (Less warm than hers, naturally.) What if I won the lottery? It'd be pretty rude of me not to give the Universe an opportunity to make it up to me. So, I decided then and there that I would gamble on the Universe; I would offer it one more chance. I would give it almost a full year to show me whether my pitiful life was worth living.

I needed to revise the agreement.

Suicide Pact: The Rules

Throughout the year, I will keep a track of positives and negatives in my life. Every time something positive happens, I will note it down as a 'pro' and place it in a drawer. Every time something negative happens, I will note it down as a 'con' and place it in a different drawer.

Anything I deem important enough can be placed in the drawers.

I will refrain from showing bias, i.e. purposefully finding more 'cons' in life than 'pros'. (After all, it's not real gambling unless it's left up to fate.)

Only events that occur from this moment on will be counted. (Otherwise, the cons would have an overwhelming advantage from the start.)

On New Year's Eve (and not before), I will count up the totals. More pros than cons: I live. More cons than pros: I die.

Signed: S. J. Bramwell

Dated: 26/01/13


	2. Chapter 2

**February**

By early February, the pros and cons idea was well underway. Some days, I didn't drop any slips of paper in at all, whereas other days I found myself scribbling on every Post-It note or receipt I could find. The only part of the plan that wasn't working was that I couldn't stop myself from going into the drawers to count whether there were more pros or cons. Knowing which side was winning was _not_ part of the agreement. Luckily, I remembered the moneybox the owners had used when I'd worked at The Horse &amp; Cart pub as a student. In order to save a percentage of the tips for staff nights out, they'd bought one shaped like a pig that had to be smashed if you wanted to get the cash out. I bought two of these, tipped the contents of the drawers inside and labelled them up.

Con: £24 for two piggybanks. Daylight robbery.

When you start tracking your life in terms of positives and negatives, the strangest things start to matter. For example, I'd never noticed quite how incredibly irritating people were before. One of the first people to make it into my 'cons' pig was one of those charity do-gooders who ruined a walk down the high street to buy some Lucozade (hangover ritual: stage 3). In Sheffield, in particular, the charity collectors hunt in a pack, forming a deadly zigzagged gauntlet down the main shopping street. My usual tactics were headphones, diagonal steps and feigned ignorance. Unfortunately, on this particular day, my headphones had mysteriously disappeared (most likely into Jay's waxy ears).

'Well hello there, sir! My my, do you look sharp today; are those new trainers?'

This was exactly what I hated most about them. _Just be honest: you want my money for charity. That is literally the entire point of this conversation. Do not delay the inevitable request with polite chitchat. Do not try to flatter me by calling me 'Sir' and thus assigning me some kind of authority. I drank three bottles of wine and slept for two hours last night; I do not look, or smell, "sharp". And no, these are not new trainers._

I ignored him and continued walking. He disguised his annoyance with a jovial laugh and jumped back into my path.

'Now sir, with a sharp dress sense like that, you must be…what…a banker? A lawyer?'

_Oh yeah, because all the bankers and lawyers I know wear cheap jeans and Converse. I know what you're doing - you're wearing a fucking bright green t-shirt with a charity logo and carrying a collection bucket for Christ's sake!_

I moved right. He moved right.

'Did you know that just £2 a month would give a child in Africa clean water to drink?'

I moved left. He moved left. He was smiling so much I could only assume he must be intoxicated. The thick gap between his two front teeth was gawking at me.

'That's right: just £2! I bet a successful guy like you wouldn't even notice that leaving your bank account.'

This guy was seriously getting on my last nerve. I pushed past him and said, 'I'm sorry, I don't speak English.'

'Look buddy, it's pretty rude to downright ignore someone who's just trying to chat.'

Oh, he'd done it now. Enough was enough.

'Pretty rude, is it?' I turned around and started walking back towards him. 'It's funny that you're familiar with the word _rude_, considering that you spend your day scrounging in the street and pestering poor people who just want to get a bit of shopping done. Actually, while I've got your attention, I was wondering whether _you'd_ like to donate to _my_ charity. It's called the S.B.H.C.: Simon Bramwell Hangover Cure. For just £5 a month, you can learn to stay the fuck out of my way and I can buy myself a couple of packs of bacon. Yeah? How does that sound?' My righteous speech had drawn a crowd. 'Shall I sign you up for direct debit or would you rather I track you down every month for the cash?' His little green-shirted accomplices were approaching, so I bowed graciously to my audience and told him to enjoy the rest of his day.

On my walk back from the shop, I had a clear run through the gauntlet: no need for an encore. That was a pleasant surprise.

Alongside noting down such annoyances, I also tried to give credit to the small things that went well each day (as promised in my agreement). Examples that made it into the 'pros' in the first few weeks were: walking out of work at 3pm, elbowing a few specific kids out of the way so that I could reach the portal to freedom first; getting extra chips from the old bat in the canteen who had a thing for younger men; and managing to make a 'badman' Year 7 cry in front of all his friends. I wouldn't say that the tracking process was necessarily enjoyable, but at least it made my days go quicker. And with 329 left, I needed something to speed them up.

'For God's sake, Jay, since when do we answer the house phone? I thought we unplugged it ages ago?' He shrugged, belched loudly and handed me the receiver.

'Simon? Hello?'

_ Emma: just what I need._

'Hello? Simon, are you there?'

'Err, yeah. Hey.' I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.

'Oh fantastic, I've finally caught you! Honestly, I feel like I call and call and call and no-one ever answers! How've you been?'

_Hmm, how have I been? Well, I've been pretty shit. My life is one long, vicious circle of complete tedium. In fact, I'm having such an incredibly crap time, that I've designed a sort of suicide gambling game just to give myself something to get up for every morning. _'Fine.'

'Oh great! It's so nice to hear your voice. Anyway, I'm actually not just calling for a natter; I have something exciting to tell you.'

_Of course – I should have guessed. She only ever calls to gloat about her own stupid, perfect life._

'Simon, are you still there?'

'No.'

'Ha, hilarious as ever! Well, as I was saying, I have some news for you…'

_Cue her pause for dramatic effect._ I reached for my pen and started scribbling.

Con: Listening to conversational carrot-danglers.

'Max is going to have a little sister!'

_Pause again here, awaiting my reaction._

'I'm pregnant - again! Isn't it wonderful, Simey? Henry's over the moon, of course. His mum's started knitting little booties and mittens already, bless her. Mum and Dad are coming to visit next weekend, what with it being my birthday anyway, and Ellie is planning me another _gorrrrrgeous_ baby shower. Obviously, that won't be happening for months yet but with how enthusiastic Ellie is, I wouldn't be surprised if she had started organising it already! That is, if she can tear herself away from that new hunk of hers. Luno, I think she said his name was. I don't know where she meets these…Simon, are you still there?'

I really wasn't listening; I was too busy scrawling and trying to erase my own memory.

Con: Ellie. No need to re-live that nightmare.

'Mmm.'

'Well, Mum suggested that you could come and visit with them next weekend? Her and Dad are coming down on the Saturday with it being my birthday on the Thursday. I know how busy you are, and I know that you often have work to do at the weekend but-'

_Since I couldn't care less about my job, I never have work to do at the weekends. But my family don't need to know that._

'-well, I thought maybe just one day off won't do any harm! So, you'll come then? For my birthday? Max would love to see his Uncle Si again – he was so terribly disappointed that you couldn't make it for Christmas.'

'Mmm. Maybe. Listen, there's someone at the door. I've got to go.'

'Oh, OK. Call me?'

'Yeah, I will.' _Only at a time I can be certain you're not in._

Conversations with my sister were always challenging. It was like walking a tightrope over a big, burning volcano of stories about her brilliant job and other, equally mind-numbing stories about her perfect child. All of her Brady bunch anecdotes would be swirling around beneath me, and just showing the slightest bit of interest in one topic would cause an eruption. A few months ago (during another unfortunate episode of Jay forgetting our rule to leave the house phone unplugged), I made the mistake of asking how Max was. Christ, I was only trying to fill the silence; I wasn't actually _asking_. Next minute, BOOM: Max lava everywhere. After half an hour of wittering, she actually put him on the phone. Him! On the phone! Have you ever tried to have a conversation with a two-year-old?

Max: 'Unka Sigh!'

Me: 'Mmm, indeed. Hello, Max.'

Max: 'Dost!'

Me: 'Pardon me?'

Max: 'I li dost.'

Me: 'I literally can't understand a word you're saying.'

Max: 'I din miwk.'

Me: 'Riiiiight. Could you put your mother back on please?'

Max: 'Miwk! Miwk!'

At that point, I hung up. Parents really shouldn't force you to converse with their children until they can hold an actual discussion. Although he'd now reached three, I doubted Max had yet developed any intellectual opinions worth hearing, so I avoided phone calls with both him and his insufferable parents like the Plague.

Emma had always had this idea that us being siblings somehow tied us together past childhood, despite the fact that we had nothing in common. She seemed to want to be in contact 24/7 and was always trying to 'help me out', offering me money, trying to visit. She was pretty hard work. When I was at University, she'd even tried to set me up with Ellie, her best friend. Emma and Ellie met when they started primary school, aged 4, and had remained inseparable ever since (despite the fact that Ellie's life had taken a rather different route than Emma's). Emma had travelled the world during a gap year; attended Newcastle University, attaining a 1st class degree in Law; and then finally moved to London to pursue a successful career in environmental law. Ellie, on the other hand, attended the University of Derby studying one of those courses that had a really vague name with something like 'Management' or 'Skills' at the end. In other words, one of those utterly pointless 'degrees' that lead absolutely nowhere and just exist so that stupid people can go to University too. Whatever the name of it was, the course was all a bit too much for Ellie; she discovered MDMA and all-night raves and scraped through with a 3rd. She moved on to live in a bedsit in Swindon and paid her rent by doing bar-work and taking temporary promotional jobs. That I had remembered any of this was a miracle, since the details of her life were of absolutely no interest to me; however, it was deemed necessary by Emma that I was up-to-date before my 'big night'.

Emma instructed me to be sensitive with Ellie, since, at the time, she'd just been dumped by her boyfriend of 7 months: Snake. I could have saved her a lot of suffering by pointing out right at the beginning of that relationship that anyone called 'Snake' was clearly going to be a total psychopath. Anyway, I refused to call, or to take any active part in the planning process (since I wasn't looking for a daft liability to be my girlfriend and had actually been deadly serious when I told Emma 'NO'), so Emma planned the entire thing. To say it was a disaster would be an understatement. Firstly, I was late. To say that I was late by accident would be a lie. Secondly, the restaurant was practically empty. It was one of those gastro-pubs that had been recently renovated and tried desperately to be unique and trendy whilst actually just falling into the same traps as all the others: open kitchen; big, squashy sofas around the fire; and quirky, mass-produced artwork on the walls. The first thing Ellie did was to ask the waiter what the vegan options were. I wanted to push over the table and run at that very moment. Vegans were, in my mind, people who were so incredibly egotistical that they thought what they, as an individual, ate would have some kind of miraculous effect on the planet's ecosystems. They were even worse than vegetarians. She noticed the way I rolled my eyes when she ordered, but I had no desire to impress her. Or anyone else, for that matter.

By the time the first course arrived, we'd covered all of the conversation topics available to us: 1. Emma and 2. How work/University were. Over the excruciating 40 minutes of stilted conversation that followed, she drank a bottle and a half of Merlot alongside her pomegranate salad and sage polenta cake. The wine cost more than my meal, as did her Hippie food, so I refused to pay for anything other than what I had. As far as I was concerned, the need for chivalry ended with the Equal Pay Act of 1970.

On the way home, Ellie shoved her hand down my trousers in the back of the taxi and gave me one of the shittier hand-jobs I've ever received. When we pulled up outside the train station, she asked me whether we had time for coffee back at mine before she was due to catch the last train home. She was slurring her words and doing something with her eye that I think was supposed to resemble a wink. Unfortunately, it made her look like a stroke victim. I declined and held the car door open for her, like a true gent; I'd already ejaculated on the journey home - what was the point of her coming back to mine?

Unfortunately, it turned out that Ellie was so drunk, she never actually made it onto her train. She walked into the station, failed to see the 'Wet Floor' signs and fell hard on the back of her skull. By this point, the taxi had already started to move off and I simply felt it too late to turn back and offer assistance; she had become someone else's problem by that point. Six stitches and one night in A&amp;E later, she was as good as new and ready to catch that train home. Problem solved. Apparently, though, Ellie's accident and consequent bald patch were somehow _my_ fault, so the night had been held against me ever since. And that came from people who didn't even know I'd seen her slip before telling the driver to drive on.

Early February heralded yet another parents' evening: this time, it was really bad news. All Year 10 parents were invited in one Thursday night and I was lucky enough to be teaching not one, but two Year 10 classes. One half of my long night would be spent speaking to parents of students from the top set (10XE), which would involve comments such as: 'Has really engaged with the topic of war poetry'; 'Raised some interesting points about the way in which _Lord of the Flies_ displays a microcosm of adult society'; or, at worst, 'Occasionally caught whispering to her neighbour when she should be listening'. The other half of my night would be spent speaking to parents of students from the bottom set (10XT – the 'XT' there standing for 'Extreme Twats'). These comments would be more along the lines of: 'Has really struggled to stay awake during the topic of war poetry'; 'Raised some interesting points about how my teaching is similar to unrelenting torture'; or, at worst, 'Occasionally caught rolling _(often overpriced and poorly crafted)_ joints and selling them to Year 7 students when sent out into the corridor to calm down'.

Fortunately, the sheer number of appointments I had meant that my evening flew by. I was down to my last couple of consultations when Morgan Fenwick's ugly mug came stomping towards my table. I always scheduled Morgan into the latter section of the evening, as her mum worked as a beauty therapist and the salon was open until 8pm. I had learned to leave a half hour window open for the Fenwicks, as opposed to the usual 10 minutes; we always had a lot to discuss. I knew Morgan's mum inside out, as I had started teaching Morgan in Year 8; since then, I had requested to teach her class each year. They were a mixture of horrible little turds, but I had my reasons.

Morgan and I got off to a bad start from the first lesson in Year 8, as she was under the belief that she was going to be 'Billy Big Balls' of the classroom. Those were the students I despised even more intensely than the rest: ones who failed to realise that they were petty little children of no consequence in an adults' world. During that first lesson, at only the age of 12, Morgan had arrived ten minutes late and then refused to take her bag off the table (her way of instantly asserting her authority over new teachers). I sensed she wasn't a student who would respond to the triviality of the usual school warning system, so I picked her bag up off the desk and threw it out of the nearest open window. Unorthodox? Yes, but at least it shut her up. Unfortunately, the concrete beneath that window broke both her iPhone screen and the mirror she used to apply the fourteenth and fifteenth layers of foundation to her pimpled face throughout the day. I was called into the Head's office two days after the 'incident'. In school, events were always referred to as incidents, regardless of severity – whether you'd forgotten to mark Jordan Schofield's exercise book or strung Hannah Caseley up by her ankles at the front of the classroom for forgetting her homework (something I'd dreamed about but admirably managed to resist thus far), you were always called in to discuss the 'incident'. In this particular case, the meeting was called by the affronted student's mother. Obviously, I knew about the parent meeting in advance, as Morgan took pleasure in telling me that her mum planned to: Slap my "stupid fucking glasses" off my "stupid fucking face". She really was a little charmer.

My meeting with Cheryl Fenwick was a piece of cake. She was a far more attractive specimen than her daughter, which made flirting my way out of trouble pretty painless. Her long, blonde hair fell in curls to just below her breasts and the colour of her lipstick always matched her neat, manicured nails. After the meeting, I asked her if she always looked so superb when she came into school to discuss Morgan. It turned out she did.

Tonight's Cheryl show featured her in a short, black leather dress and heels. Her slim, bronzed legs were bare, despite the cold January temperature outside. I made a move to stand and greet the pair but my erection caught on the edge of the desk, restraining me back to my seated position. Fortunately, Morgan was wearing a pair of patterned leggings that highlighted the deep creases around the tops of her rippling thighs; that image was just the ice-cold shower I needed.

'Mr Bramwell,' Cheryl purred, sitting down and brushing her leg against mine under the table. 'We really must stop meeting like this.'

'Indeed,' I replied, my cheeks reddening. Something about this woman had the power to reduce me to a jibbering, horny teenager.

'I hope Morgan's not been waggin' it again?'

'No, no, not at all: in fact, Morgan's made quite an improvement since the last time I saw you.' Total bollocks. I just needed to keep her mother sweet.

'Is that right?' She leaned forward. I felt her hand snaking up my thigh under the cover of the small, faux-wood desk. She had even less patience than usual.

'I can't believe I've done this again,' I said, bringing my hand up to my forehead in mock embarrassment, 'but I've actually left Morgan's exercise book up in my classroom. There are some bits and pieces in there that I'd really love to show you.'

Her right eyebrow arched and she smiled. 'Morgan, wait for me in Reception.'

As I released Cheryl's pert buttocks from their leather prison and bent her over my desk, she informed me that she had a drop-in home appointment to do at half 8, so I had to be quick. Like that was ever an issue.

Pro: Cheryl Fenwick.

Why couldn't all relationships be like this?

That weekend, in order to get to Emma's birthday meal on time, I had to catch the 10:27am Saturday train down to London. When Mum had heard I couldn't make the party because I couldn't afford the train, she'd transferred £100 straight into my bank account. The poverty excuse had worked well in the past, but I was clearly becoming complacent to think that I could recycle it. The return ticket only cost £38. Transferring far too much was Mum's way of backing me into a corner – that way, it would be entirely my own fault if I failed to attend her precious darling's birthday and everyone could spend the evening talking about what a selfish twat I was.

Sheffield station was a 30-minute walk from the flat and I left at 10:15; they could hardly blame me if I happened to miss the train and was therefore unable to make it for the family merriment. Unfortunately for me, the damn thing was delayed and I even had enough time to get a coffee before its departure. At the Starbucks kiosk, I approached the till at the exact time same as a girl with short, blonde hair. In unison, we both tried to order a medium latte. In a film, that exact moment would have been our 'meet cute'. It did help that she was absolutely gorgeous. I gave her my best winning smile and offered for her to go in front.

Pro: Perving on gorgeous girls in public.

She smirked and almost rolled her eyes. It was the look of someone who had been approached by voracious men so many times that it became an insignificant part of her day; that would explain why a reciprocated smile was clearly far too much effort, never mind a 'thank you'. _Fuck it. _ She'd already ruined our potential hot, dirty fling, so why should I be so polite? Anyway, she looked like the type of girl who'd be way too much effort in bed, lying back and expecting me to do all the work.

'Actually, I've changed my mind.' I shoved her shiny, blonde head out of my way with my palm. 'I was here first. Mine's a medium latte.'

I felt pretty proud of myself as I walked away from her scowling face. However, I knew I was going to have to stop being so easily irritated if I was going to have sex with anyone new before I died. Normal girls required far more effort than Cheryl Fenwick. For example, if you bumped into an attractive brunette with DD cups on a night out, you were expected to pretend to care what her name was, where she went to University and what job she had. You were expected to buy her a drink. You were expected to find the fact that she had 3 cats at home adorable. You were expected to look at photos of them and learn their names. You were expected to buy her another large Chardonnay. You were expected to listen to her explain how she'd always had a close relationship with her mum but how it had grown since they lost her dad back in 2007. Then, just when you thought you might have put in enough bullshit to get her back to yours, you found out you not only had to impress her, but also her moronic blonde friend with the fake gold jewellery. You had to pretend to find her stupid friend's lack of common sense absolutely hysterical. You had to pretend that _Take That_ was your favourite band too, and that listening to them didn't make you want to send barbed wire swimming down your ear canals. In essence, you were looking at hours and hours of irrelevant conversation. Spending more money on drinks for her than you'd usually spend on your own weekly food shop. All that effort and for what? One single, solitary shag. I was tired even thinking about it.

I didn't want a relationship (well, labelling the Gisele Bündchen clause as an exception); people in relationships were nauseating. The part I despised most pungently was the little recount of 'how we met' where they giggle and gaze at each other, pretending the story is totally unrehearsed when, in fact, it's choreographed within an inch of its life. The only way I can ever entertain myself during these dry exchanges is to read the subtext myself.

'She was on the other side of the dance-floor when our eyes met across the crowd.' _It was 3am and I was scanning the club to see what leftover scraps there were._

'She took my breath away. She looked like an angel.' _I went instantly from six to midnight because she was dressed like a slag in a little black dress and looked well up for it._

'And now, I'm the luckiest guy in the world.' _One year on, she's put on two stone and we spend every Saturday night watching The X Factor. We haven't had sex for three weeks._

Fast forward a few years and the tears roll down her perfect face as he tells her he's been shagging his secretary and they're buying a house together in St. Tropez. As the salty tears reach her lips, they are spat out like piercing needles. All her beauty melts away; she cries so hard her mouth won't close and she dribbles. Picture that. Go on, picture it. Supposedly, between 40-50% of marriages end in divorce now, so what you're picturing is remarkably common. Take all this into account, and then tell me you still see the point in starting a relationship. So, you see, even if I did get the meet cute and meet the cute girl, the relationship would end in the same way as everyone else's. Disaster. What was the point? Cut to the end: unhappiness. Well, I'm already there. In a way, I win.

The train journey was long and arduous, since I ended up sharing a table seat with a man and his young son. It turned out that four-year-old Reuben didn't wish to sit still or to use the colouring book his father had optimistically brought along for him. It turned out Reuben would much rather squirm around in his seat, kick my shins under the table and squeal at the top of his voice every time his father denied his demand for chocolate. Obviously, my first thought was to shove the child's face so full of chocolate that he'd practically choke on it. The second option was to move to a different carriage, but the train was so full that people littered the aisles, clinging on to seat backs and staring longingly at those who had managed to find a place to rest their legs. Aside from Reuben, there was an elderly lady eyeing up the seat I was using for my bag; she rubbed her back as though she was in pain, sighed and cleared her throat constantly. I knew what she was doing, but I _needed_ my bag on the seat. It contained my train snacks. I kindly advised her to purchase some throat sweets for that cough and popped my headphones (which I'd eventually located under a discarded takeaway container in Jay's bedroom) into my ears.

Con: Over-prescribed trains.

By the time I reached Kings Cross, I was in a toxic mood. Emry (that's Emma and Henry – they were so sickeningly inseparable, I now thought of them as one being) lived in a place called Barnes, which was in the same Borough as Richmond. When she first moved there, she started telling everybody that she and Henry had bought a house in Richmond; I took great joy, whenever possible, in pointing out that it was technically over 2 miles away from Richmond and therefore a much, much cheaper property. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I stopped getting invited to their fancy cheese and wine evenings.

The house itself was, although I would never have admitted it to anyone else, fairly decent. Its pale grey body stood proudly back from Station Road, in a long row of neat, terraced houses. From the front, the house boasted colourful window boxes and two large, bay windows; at the back of the house, two glass doors led out onto a wood-panelled patio. The interior décor wasn't exactly to my liking, but then neither were the house's occupants.

I approached the path leading up to the front door half an hour later than instructed – I enjoyed keeping people waiting. Resting its left-hand wheels on the pavement, next to Emma's oversized Range Rover, was Dad's red Alfa Romeo: of course, Mum had made him come in the 'best car'. God forbid anyone should see the T reg. Volvo they kept hidden away in the garage. Immediately, the usual choking anxiety of seeing my family crept up inside my throat. I was genuinely wondering whether I could back away without being seen when the door bounced open.

'Simey! You came! You actually came!' Emma forced her arms around me and squeezed so tightly I thought my arms might form cavities in my ribcage. I could feel the rigidity of the small bump that had already formed under her jumper. Her cashmere jumper, I should note. In the ten years she'd been living in London, all of Emma's ordinary clothes had been slowly replaced by cashmere jumpers, silk blouses and designer suits. She called it her 'maturing sense of style'. I called it Henry's credit card.

Her clothes weren't the only things that had changed over the last decade. Despite the pregnancy swell, even I could see how much skinnier she was and it irritated me that she pretended to find enjoyment in exercise. I, unlike her dearest darling Henry, could still remember her as a lazy teenager, when walking up the stairs was comparable to climbing Mount Snowdon in terms of the effort it took. Sometimes, she would even fall asleep on the sofa after watching _Blossom_ (or one of her other shite T.V. programmes) and I would watch Dad carry her up to her bed. That was the real Emma. This Emma drank breakfast through a straw and talked about how Goji berries and chia seeds had changed her life.

'Come in, come in,' she squealed, motioning for me to enter her little palace of perfection. Despite the fact that I had visited once before, I was still shocked by the sheer amount of beige two people could fit under one roof. I followed the beige runner from the entrance hall into the lounge, where it joined the beige carpet. The enormous living room neighboured the dining room in a trendy, open-plan style. I'd always found the idea of 'open-plan' houses strange; in Victorian times, it was a sign of poverty for a family to pile into one or two rooms. Yet now, that impoverished style was somehow fashionable? Strange.

In the centre of the room, a semi-circle of beige chairs pointed inwards towards a cream, marble fireplace. Normal people tend to centre their furniture around their T.V. screen, but Henry and Emma weren't normal people. They didn't own a T.V., as Henry had been raised to believe that 'televisions hinder important opportunities for learning, exercise and social interaction'. When Henry first told my mother this, she sold all three of the T.V.s her and Dad had at home. What she didn't know was that Dad had bought a small one and assembled it in his shed. He watched football on it most nights when Mum thought he was putting in some extra hours on a new engineering project.

My parents were sitting on one of the plush, beige sofas in the living room and rose awkwardly to greet me as I entered. Mum was wearing her trademark tailored trouser-suit in grey and her lipstick was several shades too dark for her age. Although she had aged well, taking care to remain slim and healthy into her early sixties, her face was stiff from Botox and tell-tale greys were protruding defiantly through her dark, bobbed hair. Dad, on the other hand, had embraced the ageing process much more naturally. The rubber ring around his middle continued to grow and the soft lines around his blazing blue eyes hinted at his kindness. His greys were spreading into his bushy eyebrows and it was clear from the jungle protruding from his nostrils that he had ignored Emma's Christmas gift of a top-of-the-range nose-hair trimmer.

Dad shook my hand across the mahogany coffee table with both of his and told me that it was good to see me. Mum said, 'Shoes, Simon. It's a cream carpet for goodness' sake.'

'Time for gifts!' Mum announced, beaming and rosy-cheeked after three glasses of Bollinger. She clapped her palms together, as though this motion would send all her little worker bees into action. 'Shall we start with Simon, just in case he decides he's bored of us already and needs to hurry back to Sheffield?'

I clenched my jaw together, smiled and checked my watch for the thousandth time. Did twenty minutes in Emma's living room pass for a family visit? I was supposed to be staying the night but my ticket was for an open return; I wanted the option to leave at any time.

'Simon?' Mum asked again.

Her statement finally dawned on me. '_Time for gifts.'_ _Shit._

'Coo ee! Anyone home?'

_Oh shit._

'Simon,' she murmured, shooting a nervous glance at Henry, 'did you leave your gift in the hall?'

I honestly hadn't intended to arrive empty-handed. Honestly. Since I generally avoided all uncomfortable social gatherings like birthdays, engagement parties and Christenings, I seemed to have forgotten the etiquette surrounding such events. Plus, didn't you only have to bring a gift if it was a child's birthday? It seemed a little self-indulgent for someone in their thirties to expect a mountain of presents. Even if I had remembered, what could you buy the girl who had everything? She certainly didn't need another tin of bloody beige Dulux.

Emma sensed the panic on my face and jumped in: 'Simey's here, Mum; I think that's enough of a gift in itself, don't you?'

My mother pursed her lips, as she always did when she felt herself charitable enough to hold back her actual opinion. Max was playing with a toy kitchen set on the floor, so I moved over to join him in order to avoid the present parade.

'Your plate!' Max said, smiling up at me and pointing to one of the blue, plastic plates in his red, plastic cupboard. Lost in my own thoughts, I moved my hand back and forth through the soft, beige fibres of the rug. I was trying to remember whether Mum and Dad had got me anything for my last birthday.

'Dis blue plate!' Max repeated.

I glanced up at the happy little gathering on the sofa. Emma's blue eyes leaked tears as she pored over some little yellow vest things from Mum and Dad. She laid them across her stomach, as though we were supposed to miraculously sense what the unborn foetus would look like wearing them.

'Frying pan!' Max tapped my hand with the silver handle. 'You put duh eggs in duh frying pan, Unka Sigh.'

Emma opened Henry's gift next, shredding the neat, turquoise paper. 'A Tiffany necklace! Oh, Henry darling, I love it!' She kissed his cheek. _Jewellery. Real original, Henry._

'Unka Sigh! Beans!' Max waved a fake can of Heinz in front of my face. _What does this kid want: a fucking medal? Yes, it's a tin of beans. Congratulations. I can point at objects around the room and label them with the appropriate nouns as well._

'Max? Are you ready to give Mummy her present from you?' Henry called. Henry handed a large, soft package to Max, who neglected to pass it to Emma and ripped it open himself. Seeing that there was nothing of interest inside, Max threw the green scarf to one side. In return, he was smothered in his mother's kisses and thanked over and over again. Were we supposed to assume that Max, at three years of age, had stumbled out of the house, onto the train to Central London and into Selfridges to purchase said item? Or were we to think it romantic that Henry spent double the money on Emma's birthday and then masqueraded one of the presents as Max's? Parenting really was a load of farcical bollocks.

'Can you pass the beef?' I asked, having waited for dinner so long that my stomach was audible. Henry and my mother glanced at each other, sneering and attempting to hold back laughter. 'Please?'

'This dish here? It's called _venison_,' Henry responded. 'If it is the _loin_ of _venison_ wrapped in _pancetta_ that you desire, then I can indeed be of assistance.'

_Patronising wanker._

'Henry, darling!' Emma admonished. 'You must remember that not everyone speaks foodie as fluently as you do.' She mouthed the word 'sorry' across the table at me. Mum started giggling and Henry poured her some more Beaujolais. I felt like pouring the gravy directly over Henry's head. Sorry, not gravy – '_jus_'.

'So, son,' Dad began, trying to dissipate the atmosphere and handing a bowl of parsley-infused Lyonnaise potatoes across the table, 'how goes everything up North?' This was a tricky question. Any details of my life that I reported back upon simply rammed more ammunition into my mother's barrel. This was the way in which she saw the minutiae of my life:

Job: Earning about £40,000 less than most other people she knew (including her own daughter). She'd given up asking when I was going to be promoted to Head of Department years ago. My lack of ambition didn't suit her. Instead, she simply told all her well-to-do friends that I _had_ been promoted. In fact, last year I'd apparently been made Deputy Head and was really looking like 'Headship material'. Lucky me.

Home-Life: A fat, hairy, same-sex housemate and an ex-council flat weren't exactly details to parade at a cocktail party either. Instead, she related that I lived alone and Netherthorpe was actually a very 'up-and-coming' area.

Love Life: Indeterminately single. Mum's translation: Beating them off with a stick and just waiting for the right one to come along.

Luckily for me, Max shoved a carrot up his nose at that exact moment, creating such a diversion that my silence went unnoticed.

After dinner, Mum insisted that I help Henry clear the table while she made sure Emma had a rest and Dad kept Max occupied. I didn't really understand what integral part Mum was to play in Emma having a rest, but I decided it was better to keep my mouth shut. I knew better than to argue with my mother.

As I scraped the unwanted morsels of venison loin and sautéed kale into the bin, I couldn't help but wonder what the big deal was with posh food. First of all, I'd never had a meal that tasted better than a full English breakfast after a heavy night out. Second of all, everybody's plate looks like the aftermath of a battlefield massacre at the end of the meal, whether they've had a McDonald's Big Mac meal or a plate of lobster thermidor. Not to mention that it all comes out looking the same in the end anyway.

'So, Henry, been on any jolly fruitful hunts recently?' I probed in order to fill the uncomfortable silence of cutlery scraping on bone china.

'It's drawing towards the end of hunting season, Simon. Surely at least _you_ know that!'

I actually quite enjoyed conversing with Henry. He was so incredibly bland, and had so little sense of humour, that he was oblivious to all forms of mockery.

'Ah, I see.' I clapped my hand on his broad back to imitate a friendly gesture. 'And what about the polo – are you still playing?'

He paused. 'I think you must have me confused with someone else, Simon. I don't play polo. Well, other than when visiting my parents in Berkshire, of course.'

'Of course. My sincere apologies. I must have been thinking of…' _Insert ridiculously posh person's name here. This always works._ '...Horatio.'

'Oh goodness me! Do you know Horatio? Bloody good chap! Bloody good indeed. Studied with him over at Oxford.'

Sometimes, if I was lucky, and I pushed Henry just enough, I could get him to burst into some kind of collegiate song that made him sound like a proper twat. _Here goes._

'What a small world! Remind me, will you, which college branch were you both members of?'

Henry put the tea towel down at once. He cleared his throat and began rhythmically pounding his fist on his chest.

'_Pembroke, Pembroke: collegiate of command,_

_Rising, ruling - all at thy fair hand,_

_Champions! Champions!_

_Comes the cry of gleeeeeeee,_

_Pembroke, Pembroke: we owe all unto thee._

_Champions! Champions!_

_Blessed home have weeeeeeeee.'_

_Brilliant. Bloody brilliant._ That was going in my 'pros' box when I got home.

I was just about ready to bid farewell to my delightful family and jump eagerly on the last train home when Emma suggested we play a game. Since I was aware this could potentially be the last time I ever saw them, I decided to stick around and leave in the morning. Usually, we would be stuck playing: _The Sneaky, Snacky Squirrel_; _Cock-A-Doodle-Moo_; or any other shit game highly rated for three-year-olds. Thankfully though, Max was in bed and we could therefore behave like adults and play a game that might actually challenge anyone with an IQ of over 90.

Emma settled on _Articulate_: the object of the game being to describe a word given to you on a card without using any parts of the word itself. I had played once or twice before at University but (as with every game played at University) I'd played it as a drinking game. I had a feeling that tonight's experience would be somewhat less enjoyable.

Emma picked the teams from a hat: 'Mum…you'll be with…Dad…and…me! So, that leaves us three versus Henry and Simon.'

_Of course._ I was up first. The word on the card was 'Beirut'. Geography had never been my strongest subject but I thought I'd be polite and have a go. 'Erm, it's a country in the Middle East.'

Henry began guessing instantly: 'Syria? Bahrain? Iran?'

'It's on the coast.'

'Turkey? Egypt? Israel? Kuwait?'

'Mmmm, no, none of those. I'm pretty sure Muslim is one of the main religions there?'

'Time's up!' Dad shouted.

'Where was it?'

'Beirut.'

'Oh bloody Nora, Simon! It's a _city_ for starters, not a country!' Henry rolled his eyes back in his head. 'You could have said: it's the capital city of Lebanon? It extends into the Mediterranean? It underwent major reconstruction following the Lebanese Civil War? The list is practically endless!'

I drove my blunt fingernails hard into my palms until it hurt. If this was to be the last time I would ever see them, I would not rise to the bait. I would remain calm. I would not punch Henry, or anyone else, in the face.

The game moved over to Emma's team and Dad started off. 'It borders Spain. We rented a private villa there in '98.'

'Portugal!' Mum and Emma replied in unison.

'We live in...'

'England?'

'Yes!'

'It's like a hill but bigger. You can trek up if it you're very fit and it's in Tanzania.'

'Mount Kilimanjaro!' Emma screeched just before the timer ran out.

_I get Beirut and they get Portugal and England? Give me a fucking break._

It was Henry's turn. I was not feeling optimistic.

'Oh, brilliant,' he said as he turned over the card. 'Very simple this one; it's an allotrope of carbon.' He sat back and smiled at me, as though his job was done.

'What?'

'Probably the most well-known allotrope of carbon, Simon.'

'I don't bloody know. Coal?'

Henry smirked at Emma.

'What the fucking hell's an _allotrope_?'

'_Language_, Simon,' Mum reproved.

'Petrol?'

Mum exaggerated a sigh and drowned her disappointment in another mouthful of Henry's precious cognac. Just at the right moment, we were interrupted. Small fists began hammering on the front door and the bell _bing-bonged_ over and over again. Emma ran to answer the door, while Henry fetched more cognac for Mum.

From the hallway, Emma's hushed whispers could be heard. 'Oh my goodness, what a great surprise! I thought you couldn't make it tonight? Oh God, are you all right? What's the matter?'

'So, what was the word, Henry?' Dad ventured. 'I mean, it wasn't just poor Simon struggling with that one; you had me flummoxed too!'

'It was _diamond_ – obviously,' Mum gloated in her finest R.P. accent.

'I think perhaps you and I should be partners next time, Anne.' A slimy smile trailed across Henry's face like a slug.

'Yes, partners…in _crime_!' Mum added. She and Henry burst into fits of fake laughter. I didn't understand how Dad could stand to see his wife around Henry; he fed her insatiable hunger for affluence and she'd been latched to his ugly teat from day one.

_Diamond. Seriously? Was that actually how he explained the word diamond? Erm, how about: you find it on an engagement ring? People measure it in carats? A big, shiny gemstone? _ are forever? There was a brilliant film with DiCaprio in it called Blood _? Any normal-person-clue would have sufficed._

Emma re-entered the room supporting the weight of a small, redheaded girl whose eyes were puffed up as though she was smuggling cotton wool balls under skin.

_Ellie. Fantastic. Just when I thought this night couldn't get any worse._

'Simon, hi. Nice to (sniff) see you again.' As she shook my hand in greeting, I flashed back to visions of my white, sticky ejaculate spreading over the backs of her pale, dainty fingers. _Be polite, make a token amount of conversation and then leave. Ask about something. A boyfriend – yes, I'm sure Emma mentioned another stupidly named boyfriend._

'Ellie. Yes, how nice it is to see you again. How are things with you and that – Loony, was it?'

'It's' (sniff) 'Lun_o_'. 'And he' (sniff) 'dumped' (sniff) 'meeeeeee!' she wailed.

'Oh well done, Simon – you've gone and upset the poor girl!' Mum shot me a stern glance and pulled Ellie into a protective hug. Upstairs, Max started whimpering. 'And now you've woken Max up too,' she snapped.

I didn't bother explaining that Max probably woke up due to the mentally unstable vegan who arrived at 10pm, banged on the door and howled like a hungry dog at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't bother explaining that they made me feel about two inches tall and I was sick of managing to disappoint them whether I chose to attend their stupid family gatherings or not. I didn't bother explaining that I'd come all this way because I might never see them again. I simply picked up my bag, walked out of the front door and slammed it behind me.

Having grabbed a few hours' sleep on a station bench, I left on the first train home. I returned early Sunday morning to a pile of unopened post and no sign of Jay. I spotted an envelope addressed to him but with a return address that I recognised instantly. Finally, some hard-earned comic relief.

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

14/02/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

We are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the _Abba Gold: Greatest Hits_ audio CD that you sent to us through the post, due to the fact that it contains no actual gold.

Our records indicate that this is not the first refusal letter you have received from us, and I would therefore like to take this opportunity to remind you of the purpose of 'Gold for Cash'. Our company offers customers the opportunity to sell their gold ('gold' here relating only to the precious metal) for its cash value. Therefore, we are in the market for genuine gold products, e.g. jewellery, coins, etc.

We hope that this explains the purpose of our company and we look forward to your business in the future, should you have any gold (of the precious metal variety) to sell.

Yours sincerely,

Mr M. Grantham

(Customer Service Representative)

I knocked on his door in order to congratulate him on his latest addition, but there was no answer. In the kitchen, I found a note from him explaining that his mum had taken another turn for the worse and he'd gone to look after her for a few days. There was a p.s. on the note, which read:

Hope you had fun with your fit sister.

Jay had never met my sister but had developed a thing for her after seeing a picture on my phone. He added her on Facebook straight after that; I didn't wish to think about why. He was an only child, so I couldn't even do some revenge-perving on his sister. Jay's dad had died when he was 15, so it'd just been him and his mum since then. And perving on a widow seemed a little wrong. Even by my standards.

I tended to avoid thinking about people like Mrs Phelps whenever possible because it made me feel selfish. There she was, bald head and weak heart, fighting through relentless rounds of Chemotherapy and living life day by day, grateful for every sunrise she witnessed. Then, there was me: young, healthy and ready to die. I wished there was a way for me to swap places with her, for me to give up the life I had no use for and to let her continue on. Although we never talked about it, I knew she meant the world to Jay. On the rare occasion I ventured into his pigsty of a room, I noticed pictures of her hanging everywhere: her on the beach, back when her full head of frizzy, windswept hair was still intact; her smiling at the table of a restaurant; her with her arms around Jay, unable to reach around his vast middle but trying her best to anyway. I'd asked him once, when we were drunk, why he'd cut his dad out of all the photos. It was easier to tackle conversations like that when we were drunk; neither of us wished to be assigned the label of 'pussy' that came along with having emotional conversations when even remotely sober.

'Because I let him down,' he'd replied.

I never asked him what he meant and pretended not to notice the glistening of his eyes. I knew all too well the burden that family friction could bring.


	3. Chapter 3

**March**

DEATH TOLL IN BANGLADESH CONTINUES TO RISE

1 IN 10 SCHOOL STARTERS OBESE

BOMB BLAST KILLS 45 PEOPLE IN PAKISTAN

Sitting in my classroom with the morning paper, I found myself wondering how suicide could possibly be only the twelfth leading cause of death in the world. How were there not _more_ people looking around at the mess that we, the human race, had created and wanting to check out early before things got any worse? For one half of the world, poverty, violence, war, starvation and disease violated their existence, punctuating every day with fear. I knew how lucky I was not to be born into that side of life, but what did the developed world have to offer? Gluttonous, greedy, selfish wankers who prance around poisoning the planet with fancy cars and destroying their own healthy lungs with toxic smoke. Stuffing their clean arteries full of mushy, yellow, stinking fat every time they take a bite of that bacon sandwich or juicy rib-eye steak. Drowning their healthy livers with booze. Filling their kids' fat stomachs with junk food. How could anyone, regardless of which side they were on, look around at modern society and think that staying on this Earth was a good idea? Every atrocity that I read in that paper made me more determined not to see the first sunrise of 2014. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say that my decision to commit suicide was due to anything other than selfish reasoning, but I was ashamed of so many things that the human race stood for. As my tutor group shuffled into the room for morning registration, I put the newspaper to one side and reached for a slip of paper.

Con: Living in a world ravaged by ignorant and negligent twats.

My days at school were passing as slowly as shit through a sieve. I was almost a quarter of the way through my twelve-month agreement and had been granted no sign whatsoever that the Universe intended to reward my perseverance. If being mugged continued to be the most exciting thing that had happened to me in 2013, I wasn't entirely sure I could last until December 31st. With this in mind, I used one quiet week night to research a little further into my own demise. Just to cheer myself up.

Although I knew that choosing one of the top three suicide methods gave me the best chance, something attracted me towards number four like a magnet: jumping from a height. Despite its measly 60% success rate, what other method could offer such freedom, such escapism, such final, fleeting liberation as free-falling hundreds of feet through the air right before expiration? Plus, the 60% was totally dependent on the height of the building. Stories of successful jumpers online seemed to report that 50-60 feet was a promising place to start, but there was still a lot of risk involved at that level; I didn't want to end up just having my legs shattered or living with paralysis. God, that was the only way in which my life could get worse. No, my new motto became: the higher the better.

The highest suicide jump ever documented was that of Charles Bruce, a skilled skydiver, who jumped 5,000 feet out of a plane without a parachute. He certainly wasn't one of the 96% pitiful suicide attempts that end in failure every year. I didn't have enough money in my bank account to book a skydive, so a high building in Sheffield would have to suffice. From living in the city for years, I was aware that the University Arts' Tower was probably one of Sheffield's highest structures but I needed to ensure that it overtook my other option: City Hall. A few moments of clicking around online assured me that not only did the Arts' Tower have a lead of over 50 feet, but it was also the second tallest building in the whole city. The Arts' Tower was used primarily as a base for Sheffield University's Architecture students; its link to architecture was ironic, considering that it was undoubtedly one of the ugliest buildings ever constructed. At least the students inside didn't have to look at the damn thing. Perhaps walking towards it every morning was supposed to act as inspiration for them to never design such an eyesore. I closed my eyes to picture the scene, to figure out whether this location suited my own image of the end: standing alone in the unforgiving December wind, staring out over Sheffield's firework-splattered skyline, almost 100 metres above street level. I could almost hear the whistling of the wind and the sounds of party poppers and cheering down on the street below. I could see the hosts of drunken bystanders swarming out of various drinking establishments onto the streets like frenzied little ants, clueless as to the imminent carnage they would witness. Checking my watch repeatedly, fastidiously, I would be careful not to miss the precious moment. And, finally, as that momentous countdown began, I would stretch out my arms, take a deep breath and swoop to my inevitable death. Well, I hoped it would be 'inevitable'; a 256 feet plummet seemed like a sure thing.

What a memorable New Year's Eve I would provide for that little gathering of idiotic strangers beneath! It was actually rather generous of me, if you really thought about it. They'd all become overnight celebrities; they'd probably be invited to conduct interviews with TV news broadcasters and everything, let alone the possibilities opened up for small talk: 'Did you hear about that Arts' Tower jumper on New Year's Eve? Yeah, well I was there! No, I mean right _there_, on Bolsover Street – close enough to see his head spray all over the pavement and everything. I think I might even have some of his blood on my jacket - look!'

Yes, it was perfect. With a date and a method, I was all set; I finally had something to look forward to. All I had to do now was go along with the pros and cons bullshit and try to hold off until December. For Jay's sake. He had enough going on trying to balance work and caring for his mum without having me to worry about as well. Although she was feeling a little better than she had for a while, she was fading fast and we all knew it.

Making my way up the stairs to our flat one night after another futile day at work, I heard the dreaded sounds of a weeknight house party. Diet Coke often had people round mid-week. I guess it didn't really matter whether it was 10pm on a Saturday or 9am on a Wednesday when you spent your life in a perpetual bubble of heroin and cocaine. But they weren't usually this loud. Perhaps Old Shit had finally popped her clogs and some students had moved in, attracted by the cheap rent. Lazy, pompous students would be even worse than Old Shit. Sleeping in until mid-afternoon and banging on about how their gap year in South East Asia really allowed them to 'find themselves'. Eurgh. Why the Bible suggested 'Love thy neighbour' was something I could never understand.

Nearing the top steps, the realization sunk in that the thumping beats of Swedish House Mafia were coming from _my_ flat. And Jay hated dance music – I mean truly detested it – he was more of a Blink 182 or Sum 41 kind of guy. Whoever was behind that door was somebody he was trying to impress.

I entered quietly and rounded the corner into the lounge to an extremely unfamiliar sight: two attractive, blonde girls were dancing in the small space between the sofa and the T.V. Their arms circled each other's slim waists and they rocked their hips rhythmically from left to right. Their foreheads were pressed together and they stared at Jay mischievously from under their painted lashes. One of the girls wore a short, tight, black skirt and a patterned top that showed most of her stomach. And it was a stomach worth showing off. The other was dressed in blue jeans that clung defensively to the long, lean line of her legs. On her top half, the tassels dangling from her white top swayed seductively close to her groin.

'Fuck me!' I didn't mean to say it out loud. I cleared my throat loudly. 'Sorry, I mean…hi.' The girls glanced over at me and giggled, foreheads still stuck firmly together. I was beginning to wonder whether they were Siamese twins. Would I still have sex with them if they were Siamese twins? How would that even work…one of my hands on each of them…and then their four hands on me? That sounded like a pretty good deal. I was ready to sign up.

'Simon!' Jay cheered, turning his head towards me but leaving his eyes trained firmly on the show. 'Grab a beer and sit down, mate.'

I joined him on the sofa. 'What the hell's going on? Where did you find these two?'

'I thought I'd invite some friends over from, err…work. So that we could celebrate.'

'Celebrate what?' I asked, wondering why I hadn't spent more time in Blockbuster if _that's_ what the staff looked like. Everyone I'd seen in there looked like a poster-child for abortion.

'With it being the 5th of March?'

'What's so bloody special about the 5th of March?'

Jay's eyes moved towards the floor, breaking contact with the girls for the first time. 'So, I guess my mum really was the only person to remember my birthday.'

'Sorry, mate. I totally forgot.' In all honesty, I wasn't sure I'd ever really taken notice of when Jay's birthday was. 'Right, you crack open that bottle of Jägermeister we've had in since New Year and I'll change this shit music. Let's give you a birthday to remember.'

A few hours (and two rather boisterous games of Ring of Fire) later, a pile of empty Budweiser bottles and shot glasses lay in a heap on the floor alongside Marta's skin-tight blue jeans. She straddled Jay on the sofa, twiddling his forest of chest hair into copses with her fingers and arching her back. Krysta stood behind me, massaging my shoulders and whispering very rude things in my ear. I wasn't going to be able to give her any of the filth she was asking for if I didn't stop drinking. Slowly, I put my bottle down on the floor next to my foot and tried to focus my vision on the Trainspotting poster on the wall behind the T.V. If I could focus on this, I might just be able to focus on pleasing a woman. An incredibly hot woman at that.

Choose life.

Choose a job.

Choose a career.

Choose a family.

_Wait. Job… Career… Shit. Work! Time? 2:06am. 4 hours - have to be up in 4 hours._

I brushed Krysta's hands off the back of my neck and stood up too quickly. My head swam and I stumbled to the right, kicking the beer bottle over and emptying its warm, flat contents all over the floor. It began to seep through the toes of my sock.

'Jay. I goin' bed.'

'But I- wait! Simon!'

'G'night. Jay. Ladies.'

'But I- I paid them until- (hiccup) 'til the mor- mor- (hiccup) -ning. Y- you haven't even (hiccup) shagged yours yet!'

_Paid them? Paid them for what? _Walking in a straight line was so much effort that I couldn't focus on whatever nonsense Jay was spouting. I think Krysta may have followed me at first, but I slammed the bedroom door pretty hard behind me. That seemed to send a clear enough message.

I woke abruptly in the night, heart thumping and room unsteady. Had I missed my alarm? Was I late for work?

'Uh. Uh. Uh.'

It was 5:15am. Someone was giggling.

'Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh.'

_Where is that noise coming from?_

'You naughty, sweaty boy.'

'Uh. Uh. Uh. I am a naughty boy. A naughty, sweaty boy.'

Something was banging against Jay's wall in interrupted, fitful patterns. I moved to stand up and check that he was all right but the walls started waltzing around me the moment I lifted my head. I closed my eyes and waited for the spinning to stop.

'That good, yes? You like it when I touch her here, yes? You're such a naughty little boy.'

I felt myself drifting.

'Uhh. Uhhh. Yes. I am a naughty boy. Uhh. Ohhhhhh.'

Jay's voice echoed away and welcome, sturdy darkness rescued me from my dizzy confusion.

There can't be many jobs out there that are harder to attempt with a hangover than teaching. At least in an office job there is a chance of slumping quietly at your desk, keeping your head down and skiving your way through the day. In teaching, you've got no chance.

'Woah, you look like shit!' Kyran lifted his head off the desk to comment, as I entered the room late for my first lesson of the day. Kyran Kershaw was a bit of a celebrity around the school, known predominantly for his ability to reduce even the most resilient of teachers to a stress-related sick note. He refused to wear school uniform, attending instead dressed in a navy blue, Adidas tracksuit. His dark hair was cropped very short and he had his personal motto –

_If Your Not Wasted, The Day Is._

\- inked on his right forearm. The day he got the tattoo, he came to show it off to me proudly. He laughed when I said the only thing I didn't like about it was the absence of the apostrophe. Poor sod clearly thought I was speaking some kind of alien language. Grammatical proficiency wasn't exactly Kyran's strong point.

I'd inherited Kyran's class almost three years ago when I had joined the school. At the time, the Head of Department had used words like 'challenging' and 'dynamic' to describe the group of brainless chimps I would be facing in what was then 9XP (now 11XP). As a naïve, brand new teacher, I had no idea what the Head of Department's words actually indicated. In the same way that an estate agent might describe a ridiculously small house as 'cosy', or an entirely dilapidated one as 'rustic', a class described as 'challenging' meant that you should probably wear a hard hat and a bullet-proof vest for the first few weeks. 'Challenging' had meant that I was to dive head first into the role of zookeeper for 26 uncontrollable, individual nightmares.

'Excuse me?' I prompted.

'Sorry. I mean, you look like shit, _sir_.'

_Well, that's an improvement at least. Plus, at least I look like shit because I've consumed half a bottle of __Jägermeister__ and had four hours' sleep. You, you acne-infested, greasy, little turd, have to look like that every single day of your life._ 'Good morning to you too, Kyran. So, where were we? Act I, Scene III, if I remember rightly.'

Con: Drinking on a school night.

By lunchtime, it felt like an atomic bomb had gone off somewhere inside me, sending splinters of nausea whirling into my stomach and thrashing pains into my temples. Usually, I ate lunch at my desk, avoiding the awkward, forced conversation that came along with having colleagues. What did I have in common with the English Department: a bunch of middle-aged, dowdy mums and a twenty-one-year old teacher-training student who looked as though she might have a nervous breakdown at any moment? Nevertheless, after a morning trapped in my classroom, I needed a break; the combination of stifling radiator heat, fluorescent lights and a view of the dreary Modern Foreign Languages block didn't exactly do much to cure a hangover. Unable to face the English Office, I headed for the staffroom. Once you entered, you had to make a quick decision. Option one: sit with the older teachers, ranting on and on about the good old days when educators were trusted to do their jobs and didn't need empty-headed politicians telling them what to do. Option two: sit with the I.T. technicians, who would sweat profusely and struggle to converse if any of the female P.E. teachers came in wearing a pair of shorts. Even the old one with the saggy knees seemed to get them going. Pathetic. Option three: sit with the cleaners, armed with thick, Yorkshire accents and the kind of language that could make your ears bleed. As I hovered by the door, pondering the best of three bad options, the pleading eyes of Noreen attacked the gaping vulnerability of my hangover. Noreen was a saggy-chested Maths teacher who had a son about my age. She smiled desperately and waved me over to join them. So, option one it was. I spent the rest of lunchtime listening to Noreen complain about the state of today's youth, whilst her rancid coffee breath stretched its gangly fingers down my throat and urged my lunch to come back up. _Lesson learned: next time, even when facing the darkest depths of a septic hangover, stay in your safe space._

When Period 5 discovered me, forcing me once again to stand in front of a room full of 10XT's juvenile delinquents, I was a lit fuse. Whenever I found myself in a mood like this, I did my best to warn classes from the offset that today was _not _the day to mess with me. This was intended in no way to save them from potential consequences; it was intended to save me from being sacked for beating one of my students around the face with a dictionary. Purposefully, I flamed down the corridor, propelling every student in my path back against the walls and away from my heat. I unlocked the classroom door with such force that it slammed back into the blue wall and cracked the plaster. When you follow that kind of entrance with a stomp across to your desk and a thump of your laptop onto the surface, most kids will simmer down and wait to wind you up on a different day.

'Look at the way we analysed stanza one of Hardy's poem yesterday. You've got 30 minutes to do the same for the second stanza. Do it in SILENCE or, I swear to God, you will see a side to me that you wish you hadn't,' I warned. The Extreme Twats received my signals loud and clear and settled down to work without much fuss. I use the term 'work' loosely here; most of my students had learned that I'd leave them alone if they sat mutely. I didn't care whether they were daydreaming, napping or covertly scribbling ejaculating penises on the corners of their desks – as long as they were silent, I was happy.

Almost fifteen minutes into the lesson, my headache was subsiding and my hands had stopped shaking. I sat at the front of the room pretending to read from a poetry anthology but actually texting Jay with my phone hidden under the desk.

**Wed 6 March** 14:13

How's the head?

Wrecked

Mate, last night was epic

I don't feel too epic right now.

No, shit, me neither

Had the mother of all dumps at work

Felt a bit better after that

Nice.

Did I hear what I thought I heard in the middle of the night?

Dude, a gentleman never tells

Both? Same time?

You know me – always like to get my money's worth ;)

Maaaaaaate. High five.

The classroom door swung open and in meandered Morgan Fenwick. Apparently, my day hadn't been difficult enough already. I ignored her entirely, including her lack of punctuality, and returned to fake-reading my poetry anthology.

'What the fuck's happenin' in 'ere then?' she began.

'Watch your language and sit down.'

'What's up w' you lot? Why yer all doin' work?'

'Morgan, sit down. Now,' I instructed._ Before I break my knuckles on your face._

'What's up w' you an' all?' she asked, turning to face me. 'You look proper mardy today, sir. An' yer head's all sweaty. Eurgh – that is proper disgustin'.'

My headache was back with a vengeance; just the sound of her voice was enough. 'Morgan. Not today. Seriously. Just go and sit down like a good little girl and get on with your work. Hardy: second stanza.'

'If you can't even be bothered to 'ave a shower before yer come to school, how can I be expected to do me work?'

'Morgan, I'm not kidding. Just sit down and shut up before I-'

'Before yer what?' I said nothing. Another wave of nausea flooded through me, and blood thumped against my temples. 'Come on, sir. Before yer what? What yer gonna do?' she taunted.

'Morgan. Just. Sit. DOWN.'

She took a step towards my desk. 'Make me.'

I'd love to blame the hangover for what happened next, but I think it was just my boundless hatred for the girl. I was up on my feet in a shot and standing far too close to her. My 6 foot 3 frame towered over her and I breathed hard into her face. A tiny flash of fear flickered in her eyes. This was dangerous territory and we both knew it. She was just a fifteen-year-old girl but I wanted nothing more than to cause her physical pain. I envisaged my fist in the middle of her obnoxious face, concaving her nose and sending her teeth splicing into her gums. The silence in the room was palpable. Rows and rows of open mouths gaped in my direction. Morgan, feigning confidence, kept her eyes locked on mine, daring me to make my next move.

I surveyed my options. I couldn't hurt her physically; I needed my job to pay rent – even if it was only until the end of the year. So, I chose a different tact: such a low blow that I hoped she might even punch _me_ in the face. At least then I'd be sent home on full pay and Morgan could go straight to the Young Offenders' Institution (where we all knew she'd end up eventually). 'Well, Morgan, I suppose I could phone your mother and let her know you're struggling to behave in my lessons? I might even have to invite her into school for another,' I narrowed my eyes into hers meaningfully, '_private _meeting.' I moved so close to her that I could smell her cheap body-spray and whispered in her ear. 'I mean, the last meeting with her was so, mmm, _pleasurable_ that I wouldn't mind another go.' Morgan's face glowed volcanic red. I smiled at her knowingly and waited for the fireworks. Slowly, silently, she returned to her seat but her eyes never left me. If looks could kill, they'd probably have needed dental records to identify my obliterated body.

The thought of attempting to cook in a post-heavy-drinking kitchen sent actual shivers down my spine. The chip shop I passed every night on my way home, aptly named 'The Cod Father', seemed to be a much more appealing option. As I parked up outside, I thought of phoning Jay to check whether he wanted anything; having never seen him turn down an offer of takeaway food, or any food for that matter, I decided not to waste my credit.

The inside of the chip shop was warm and smelt familiar. When I was young, we were allowed fish and chips once a month as a special treat. Mum was very well read on the subject of children's health and nutrition, and she kept a very close eye on what Emma and I ate as we grew up. While our friends existed on diets of crisps and slices of canteen pizza, Emma and I were given packed lunches of cottage cheese, carrot sticks and mixed nuts for school. Takeaways were generally out of the question, but Dad argued that a monthly treat wouldn't do us any harm. On the last day of every month, Dad would take me with him to the local chippy to pick up our order. He called it our 'father and son bonding time'. I still remember reaching the front of the queue; how my mouth would stream with saliva as soon as I heard the words:

'Salt and vinegar on these?'

'Salt on three of them, please, but make sure you leave one plain,' Dad would say to the man behind the counter. And then he would wink at me. Mum would be able to smell vinegar but she wouldn't notice a sprinkling of salt. On the way home, I would sit in the passenger seat – so happy, so content – and Dad would put the bag on my knee. The warmth would seep under my skin and the scent would trespass into my nostrils. I remember how hard it was not to rip into the packages and stuff my face right there and then. Dad would distract me by asking how school was going and I would fill him in, trying to impress him with every detail. Our relationship was so strong back then. Back before I knew tha-

'I hear she sneezes into the batter.' I jumped a little, startled by the noise that ripped me from my reverie and brought me back to the present. Behind me, so close that I could feel her breath on my skin, stood a pale-faced girl with a mischievous smile. She was probably about twenty but she looked younger. As I glanced around, she nodded towards the ruddy-faced woman behind the counter.

'Excuse me?'

'The chef. Over there.' She nodded again.

'I'm sorry – do I know you?'

'You do now.' She flashed another brief, wide-eyed smile and moved even closer into my personal space. Her pupils were wide and pulsing, like liquid ink spilling out onto spongy moss. 'You do realise, I'm talking proper wet sneezes; yer know, where big globules fly everywhere. I'm serious.' Suddenly, her eyes hardened and her mouth set into a stern line. Somehow, though, she still gave off the impression that she could break into fits of hysterical laughter at any moment. 'Did yer know that snot travels upwards of 100 miles an hour?'

I turned away, hoping that my silent gesture would be enough to discourage her from speaking to me any longer. I tried to focus on the flushed face of the accused woman, dutifully sifting greasy chips into polystyrene containers.

'Hey, Mister, 'aven't you heard?'

_Oh for God's sake… _I glimpsed behind me.Thankfully, the weirdo wasn't talking to me any longer; she had moved back a few spaces in the queue and was harassing some other poor idiot in a tweed jacket.

'She adds her toenail clippings to the sausage meat – yer know, to flesh it out a little bit.'

_Jesus, what a fruit-loop. _She had the biggest eyes I'd ever seen – probably an indication that she was on drugs. The green of her irises contrasted hideously with the lime colour of her hair. I hated it when people dyed their hair ridiculous shades, begging for attention and an elevation of their self-esteem by soaking their scalps in chemical oxidants. About a year ago, Old Shit had dyed her hair bright blue. I don't know whether it was some kind of hideous accident or whether she was trying to cover up the giveaway grey hairs sprouting all over her skull. I do know that I almost dropped my takeaway latte all over my own shoes when we first crossed paths on the stairs.

'Oi, are you wantin' to order owt or not?' In my distraction, I had failed to notice the queue in front of me dispersing entirely.

'Sorry. Two large fish and chips please. One without peas. Salt and vinegar on both.' I hated mushy peas. If I wanted my food in the form of pulp, I was quite capable of chewing and then regurgitating it myself. I turned to check whether the green-haired girl had left. She hadn't, and I accidentally caught her eye. Why did I even care where she was? Why was I allowing this nutter to bother me?

'Psssst.' I refused to look but could hear that her voice was quieter now; she must have reached the far end of the queue. The traffic on the street outside almost punched above her volume. 'Have yer noticed that she's not wearing gloves? Never does. If _only_ she'd wash her hands after visitin' toilet…'

By the time I left, the nut job was nowhere to be seen. I didn't feel much like eating my fish and chips when I got home, which thrilled Jay. For some reason, I couldn't seem to shake the image of 100 mile-an-hour snot globules flying into my mouth.

Con: Escaped loonies in the chip shop.

Every Thursday, I taught double English to 7SB (the 'SB' this time standing for 'Silent Buggers'). With most older classes, the problems tended to centre around: misbehaviour, swearing, throwing chairs, refusing to complete work, general lethargy, and them hiding each other's possessions. You, as a teacher, were responsible for simultaneously keeping track of the words and actions of 30 idiots, alongside your responsibility to try and educate them in the ways of Shakespeare, Woolf or Dickens. With classes of new-to-secondary-school, quiet, painfully obedient Year 7 students, the problems were somewhat different: you, as a teacher, might die of boredom. Having been a part of the profession for almost 6 years, I'd taught several Year 7 classes; not once had I learned any of their names. There was no point - kids didn't get interesting until Year 8 or 9.

'Right, listen up and get your planners out: it's homework time,' I announced as our two-hour period came to a close. Year 7s didn't even groan when you gave them homework. They just dutifully wrote down every word you said, submissively accepting your rules like little worker ants. 'I want you to write me a short essay about Mr Cartright in _Flour Babies_. In your essay, I want you to explain why you do or don't like his character. No more than 300 words. Ok, have we got that? Write a SHORT ESSAY about MR CARTRIGHT from FLOUR BABIES, explaining WHY you DO OR DON'T LIKE HIM. 300 words max.'

I found that you had to repeat things a lot for Year 7. You also had to speak very slowly and use simple vocabulary. And avoid sarcasm. Sarcasm was wasted on them. It was rather like having a classroom full of old-aged pensioners.

Instantly, twelve hands shot up. Year 7s also liked to ask a _lot_ of questions. 99% of their questions were so utterly trivial that you were forced to wonder whether these kids had been raised by brainless lemmings.

'Sir? Sir? Do I take my book home and write it in there? Or do I ask you for paper to write it on? Or should I ask my mum for paper?'

'If I write it on paper, should I write it on lined paper or on plain paper?'

'Can I put my name on my homework in bubble writing?'

'Can I underline the title of my homework?'

'Can I write it in green pen?'

_God, help me._

As they began to pack their planners away and tidy up ready to move to their next lessons, one weedy little lad at the front put his hand up. His face was pale with anxiety and he looked as though he might wet his pants. I sighed and moved over to his small, shaking frame. 'What's the matter with you?'

His large, amber eyes began to dilute. Apparently, even talking directly to this little pansy could reduce him to tears. Finally, he mustered the courage to quietly ask me: 'Sorry, sir, but you keep asking us to write an 'S.A.' and I don't understand… What does 'S.A.' stand for?'

Walking from my classroom to the car park just after 3pm was always my favourite part of the day; it meant that I wasn't due back in work for over 16 hours. When I'd first started teaching, I hadn't owned a car and had therefore been forced to use public transport, which I detested. It added almost an hour and a half onto my daily commute and also meant that I ended up trapped on the tram with other teachers from the school, having awkward conversations about the weather and the fact that the price of a return ticket had gone up by 20p. Then, luckily for me, my Grandma Lyons died in her sleep – that was in 2007. Mum and Dad decided to keep hold of her Corsa because, despite its age, it was in excellent condition. It was a P reg. silver automatic with less than 40,000 miles on the clock; Grandma had only used it to ferry herself between her bungalow just outside Chester and the supermarket a few miles away. It was swiftly decided that a car would enable me to visit home more often, since the excuse I cited most frequently was 'difficult travel arrangements'. When Dad taxed it and drove it up to me fully insured, how could I refuse?

Sadly for them, I'd only visited home four times in the five years I'd owned the car. My sister would tell them: _You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink_. I think that bullshit was somehow supposed to make them feel better about having a son who would avoid seeing them, or the family home, at all costs. Being back there didn't exactly evoke great memories.

Rounding the corner into the car park that Thursday afternoon, I noticed that a group of colleagues had gathered around my car; they were pointing and shaking their heads. It was hardly the type of vehicle people would gather around to admire, so I knew something must be wrong. I reached the back of the murmuring crowd and peered over the broad shoulders of an ugly, senior Science teacher I'd never bothered to learn the name of. Running from the right-hand side of the bonnet and across both doors, the word

MUTHERFUCKER

had been scratched into the paintwork. A flurry of whispered communication greeted me:

'Is there anything I can do to help?'

'Who do you think it was, Simon?'

'I'm sure it's nothing personal - just an overzealous prank.'

'Shall I go and get something to cover it up with, in case there are still any students left in the building?'

I assured everyone that I didn't need any help and that I would see the Head the next morning in order to get the issue ironed out. I wasn't intending on seeing the Head at all; I didn't want anyone questioning any of the students…especially not Morgan Fenwick. I couldn't be 100% sure that she was responsible, but the evidence all pointed in her direction: she hated me and always had; I'd wound her up the other day; her spelling was appalling; and, in all fairness, I _was_ fucking her 'muther'.

Jay and I had decided to make fish-and-chip-night into a weekly occurrence. For me, it was a new method of shoving two imaginary fingers up at my mum. For Jay, it was just more deep-fried food. As sad as it sounds, it also gave us something to look forward to. You know your life's leading somewhere pretty dismal when the thought of a few fried potato sticks gets your heart beating faster (especially since those things will eventually slow it down and clog it up altogether). I, of course, had been nominated to collect our meals on my way home from work every Thursday; God forbid Jay should actually get up off his arse and move somewhere. This particular week, a new venue was on trial: 'The Star Chip Enterprise'. Upon entry, I reluctantly joined the short queue: a short queue in a chip shop is never a good sign.

'Excuse me, sir,' whispered a familiar voice in my ear. 'I don't mean to alarm yer, but I'm pretty sure I just saw a rat run out from inside the kitchen back there.'

_Oh God, not again._ I turned around and there she was: all big, green eyes and stupid hair. A brown fur coat enveloped her small frame and I couldn't help but wonder whether she-

'I'm just sayin' because, if I were you, I'd probably go and order my dinner from elsewhere. Three places in Sheffield have just closed down 'cause of rats - did yer know that? I heard it on't radio. I like Radio One best but me dad swears by Radio Four. Anyway, alls I'm sayin' is that yer've got to be careful where yer go these days.' As I began to open my mouth in response, she went on. 'Did yer know that there's a type of rat that lives in the desert that can survive without any water even longer than a camel can? It's called a Kangaroo Rat. In't that weird? 'Cause camels can go about _ten days_ without water! If anything, it should be called a Camel Rat, not a Kangaroo Rat. Don't yer think that would make more sense? Humans are so lame compared to animals.' Her eyes were so wide with enthusiasm that it was virtually impossible not to smile when you looked at her. Although I would never have admitted it at the time, there was a kind of childlike innocence about her that even the most cynical bone in my body found endearing.

'What are you avin', love?' The gruff voice of the server interrupted.

'Oh, sorry. Erm, two large portions of fish and chips. Salt and vinegar on both. One without peas. One large curry sauce. One large battered sausage. And six chicken nuggets.' I spun, eager to explain that the order wasn't just for me – most of it was for a very large, insatiable friend who had been previously disappointed by a lack of 'side dishes'. However, the shop was empty behind me. She'd disappeared again.

Driving home, I felt strangely elevated. She was clearly insane, but at least she'd brightened an otherwise dull Thursday.

Pro: Escaped loonies in the chip shop.

'Have you got a girlfriend, sir?' Courtney Weston of 11XP shouted from the back of the classroom. 'My little sister's mate, Talia, reckons she saw yer chattin' to a girl in't chippy the other night.' Courtney was a gobby cow.

'I don't really see how my love life is relevant to _Romeo &amp; Juliet_, Courtney,' I retorted.

'It's a _love_ story though, in't it, sir?'

_Smart little shit._ 'Well spotted, Courtney. Shall we carry on reading? Yes, good. So, Act I, Scene V. Who wants to be Lord Capulet?'

Charlie's hand shot into the air like a speeding bullet. 'Sir?'

It was hard to supress a smile at the thought that I might actually have a volunteer from 11XP to read a part. 'XP' had been affectionately nicknamed 'Excessive Pricks' when I first taught them in Year 9, and their personalities hadn't exactly improved since. However, I liked to think I had improved their confidence over the years and was finally ready to reap my rewards in volunteers. I was even more pleased that it was Charlie putting himself forward to take the part of Lord Capulet. Charlie was Courtney's twin brother. The two of them came from a 'difficult' background. 'Difficult' was yet another euphemism used in teaching to avoid saying what actually needed to be said. Mrs Weston had started drinking after her husband decided he was bored of violently abusing her and left her alone with 4-year-old twins. As a single mother with no job and a growing drinking problem, she resorted to prostitution and was now openly referred to as the local 'bike'. Charlie and Courtney regularly ended up in fights over derogatory epithets sniggered around the yard about their mother, or allegations from boys in Years 10 and 11 who would claim to have slept with her. Consequently, their minds weren't exactly focused on their studies and they were hardly what you'd call avid readers. I was just about to congratulate Charlie on his bravery, when he continued.

'Sir? So, if you don't 'ave a girlfriend, does that mean yer still living with that big, fat bloke we saw you with in town that time? That guy you told us was just yer mate?'

'Well, yes, Charlie, I do still live with him but I-'

'Eurgh! Sir's a bumder! Sir's a bumder!' he began chanting, motioning for all to join him. They did. It took 4 minutes and a visit from a passing Deputy Head to sedate the little wankers.

Con: Teenagers.

Another Thursday came round in no time and I was ready to venture into another new establishment: 'Heart &amp; Sole'. Jay and I had decided to try all of the offerings within a three-mile radius of our flat; it made the weeks tick by a little quicker. With only two to go ('A Salt &amp; Battery' and 'Batter the Devil you Know'), our pathetic little mission was almost complete.

I couldn't believe my eyes when I entered. Behind the counter, smiling like a lunatic and dishing out completely disproportionate quantities of food was the girl with the green hair. She was wearing a uniform, although it wouldn't have surprised me if she'd just snuck under the partition and thrown one on. Would anyone actually hire someone like her? Perhaps it was part of some mental health outreach programme. I wasn't sure whether to bolt straight back out; I couldn't face being put off another meal. She was bound to recognise me and fire more useless information at me concerning the habits of other desert rats and types of-

'Ready to order?'

_Shit._ I'd reached the front of the queue. 'Erm…what's good here?' _What's good here? What is good here? What kind of a stupid fucking question it that?! It's a FISH and CHIP shop!_

She turned to roll her eyes and snigger at the older woman sweating away behind the fryer. 'Hmmm, well, it is a complex menu but the fish and the chips are probably our best sellers.' They were laughing – her and the fryer woman. Laughing at me. I didn't like it.

'Two of each then - large.' No please. She didn't deserve a please. She busied her hands in the display counter, shoveling huge mounds into foamy takeaway cartons. _It's me_, I wanted to shout, although I couldn't figure out why. She clearly didn't remember me, and why should she? The only reason I could remember her was because she was so incredibly doolally.

'Can I get yer anythin' else?' She was smiling now. The kind of forged, wrinkle-less smile that she probably doled out to every customer. I shook my head. Jay could go out and get his own bloody side dishes if he was that bothered about them. I was sick of looking like a greedy bastard on his behalf. Why did I care whether I looked greedy to her? It wasn't even like she was _that_ attractive. She was below average, if anything…definitely not out of my league. I'd slept with better looking girls than her before. And skinnier ones too. She'd be lucky to have me.

I walked out in a cloud of disappointment. Even if I was interested (which I wasn't), and even if she wasn't a total idiot (which she clearly was), my suicide pact rendered dating entirely pointless. What was the point in fraternising with any one particular female when you knew the Christmas present you bought her that year would be the last thing she'd have to remember you by? Well, that and the order of service from your funeral. The one with the picture of you on the front that your family selected after hours of umm-ing and ahh-ing, searching for the one precise image that made you look cheerful and flawless. Made you look like the perfect child. Made them look like the perfect, grieving family. No, it would be a waste of time to even _look_ at girls over the next few months. I needed to focus on me. I needed to focus on reaching my goal.

'Who the hell's April?' Jay asked, unwrapping his spoils eagerly.

'What?'

'On the paper wrapped round my chip carton – look.'

Meet me. Saturday - Café Diem – 3pm.

April x

I waved it off and referred to her as 'some desperate bitch from the chippy' but I worried that Jay could see the surreptitious elation on my face.

If the girl with the lime hair could work up the courage to do something as simple as asking someone out, it struck me that a person with only a few months to live really could stand to take a few more risks. I couldn't quit my job and go backpacking around Cambodia or anything stupid like that (since I didn't have any savings and I wasn't a good-for-nothing silver spoon type), but there were bound to be a few life experiences I could tick off before I died. Plus, I was happy to embrace anything that might make the upcoming months drag a little less. I thought about involving Jay in my bucket list process but I feared it might seem a little tasteless, what with his mum gradually dying of cancer and all. On a quiet Friday night, inspired by my recent encounter, I smoked a spliff in my room and made a start.

Bucket List

Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.

Have sex with another ridiculously hot girl.

Have sex with another ridiculously hot girl.

Combine 1, 2 and 3 all at the same time. In the same bed.

_Be serious, Simon. Plus, I barely have it in me to please one woman, let alone several of them._ I started again.

Simon Bramwell's Bucket List

Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.

_It's my bucket list. I can keep one of them._

Make some new friends.

Steal something.

Visit Mum, Dad and Emma for a final time.

Have a fight.

Get a tattoo.

Tell my moronic Head-teacher what I actually think of him and his 'policies'.

Tell Dad the truth.

As soon as I wrote number 8, I regretted it. That was hardly a conversation I wanted to have. Still, if I was serious about this suicide stuff, it was a conversation I needed to have. I planned to leave this world with a clear conscience.

I spent most of Saturday morning and early afternoon pretending that I wasn't going to go. At 2:30pm, I had three options: drive my car, still emblazoned with the word 'Mutherfucker' (I couldn't be bothered, or afford, to get it fixed); get the tram, which was almost as abhorrent as catching a bus; or walk. In the interests of making sure I didn't arrive on time, I chose to walk. The way I saw it, when two individuals agreed to meet up, one would always end up waiting for the other. Since I didn't consider anyone else to be worth waiting for, I strived for a lack of punctuality at all times.

Lurking outside Café Diem waiting for April, who appeared to be running even later than I was, I gazed through the window at the perfect rows of miniature treats: thick, buttery cheesecake slices; individual tarts piled high with glassy fruits; pale pink mousses; and fat, cream-smothered Éclairs. At the circular tables inside sat perfect rows of young and attractive couples, sharing intimate secrets between sips of creamy coffee. I suddenly felt completely out of my depth. What did I know about this weird girl from the chip shop? Why had she chosen such a kitsch, vomit-inducing venue for our meeting? And what the hell was I hoping to get out of this situation anyway? Meaningless one-night stands didn't have a build up like this; if you _did_ have coffee, you had it _after_ sex, not before. But this couldn't be the start of a relationship either. I'd already decided it wouldn't be fair to ignite someone else's flame when I was planning on dousing my own out in a couple of months' time. Plus, 28 years of being single gave me the impression that female-combustion wasn't really my speciality.

Unsure of why I had even turned up, I spun 180 degrees and prepared to walk my cold feet straight back in the direction of home. That's when I saw her short figure heading straight towards me through the crowd of Saturday shoppers. Wisps of green hair glinted in the early spring sun and a bulky rainbow scarf covered most of her face. Her huge eyes smiled ecstatically and she waved her hand towards me in wide, clumsy motions. I counted that she was wearing at least six different colours. Aside from the rather hideous scarf, she wore a khaki green coat, a thick purple skirt that skimmed her knees, blue tights and what appeared to be a pair of dark brown hiking boots. She looked like she'd covered herself in glue and then rolled around inside a jumble sale. Ordinarily, I would have crossed the street to avoid someone exactly like her but my feet refused to co-operate. Shouting 'HELLO' far too loudly, she kissed me on the cheek and gestured for me to lead the way inside.

The coffee was bland but the conversation strangely interesting, which I hadn't grown to expect following my limited experience of dating. Having grown up in Sheffield, April had quite a strong Yorkshire accent; usually, I found that Northern accents made people sound stupid but she seemed to have a decent amount of knowledge under her belt. She grew up watching nature documentaries with her dad and found animals fascinating. She knew that humpback whales only eat during the summer months and that a certain type of male toad can become female when placed under the right conditions. Darren and Claire, her parents, owned Heart &amp; Sole where I'd seen her working behind the counter. She had one sister called Hannah who was eight years older than her and worked in a care home for the elderly. For some bizarre reason, I found myself drinking in everything she said – and she had a lot to say. Words scrambled out of her mouth so quickly that it was difficult to switch off – or to get a word in myself for that matter.

'So, our Hannah's been workin' there now for about – oooh – it must be gettin' on for, like, 10 years or somethin'. Wow – it doesn't seem like that long. In't it funny how time flies? They say it flies when yer enjoyin' yerself, but I think it just flies all the bloody time! Mind you, I do think she enjoys her job – our Hannah, I mean. Me? I couldn't do it: wiping old men's bums and feedin' people mushed up baby food 'cause they can't do it themselves? Ewwww! I think I'd be sick, yer know. I really do. Do you reckon you could do it? Most people couldn't; that's what Hannah says. She says that most people are too selfish but that being selfish in't _al_ways a bad thing.'

She asked question after question but left literally zero space for me to answer. Were these rhetorical questions? Or did she want me to interrupt her in order to answer? I had no idea, so I chose to simply nod and go along with it. It was actually quite nice not to make any effort – quite uplifting. Other dates I'd been on were filled with awkward silences and huge, cavernous holes in conversation where we realised we had nothing in common. With April, there wasn't even enough time to think, let alone endure a period of silence.

'God, listen to me, rabbitin' on! Honestly, my mum reckons I could talk the hind legs off a donkey – whatever that means. I mean, what kind of sayin' is that? I could talk so much that an animal's back legs would literally detach from its body, drop off and leave the poor creature sliding around on the floor, all bloody and unable to walk? Honestly, where these sayings come from I'll never know. Anyway, Simon, why don't you tell me somethin' about yerself.'

'Well, I-'

'Ooooh, I know! Let's play a GAME! I'll ask you ten questions about yerself and you have to answer them. You have to answer with the complete truth. Ok?'

_I think that question's rhetorical too._

'Right, question one: What was the name of yer first childhood pet?'

_What a weird choice of first question; she doesn't even know my last name._ 'Erm, my sister had a hamster called Scout when she was little but I never really had pets when I was growing up. Mum said she was allergic but I think she just disliked the mess.'

'Question two: Who is yer favourite celebrity?'

_Right. Must pick someone who makes me sound cool but not in an I'm-trying-too-hard kind of way._ 'Michael Fassbender, I guess. He's in some pretty decent films.'

'Question three: Would yer rather have a sandwich w' cheese on or w' tuna on?'

'Probably cheese.'

'Question four: If yer had to go blind or deaf, which one would yer choose?'

_Where is she getting this shit from? _ 'Erm, deaf, I think. I reckon losing your sight would change your life more significantly.'

'Question five: Ant or Dec?'

'Ant or Dec what? What am I doing with Ant or Dec?'

'Don't think; just answer!' she shouted, grinning.

'Ok, err – Ant? I suppose he's funnier.'

'Question six: Sunshine or snow?'

'Snow.' _At least snow sometimes means they shut the school._

'Question seven: Dark chocolate or white chocolate?'

'I actually prefer milk chocolate.'

'Good answer.'

'Thank you.' A reluctant smile spread across my face. Was I actually enjoying myself?

'I'm bored of this game now,' April announced suddenly.

'Oh, ok. No worries. I should probably be going now anyway,' I said, nodding towards the exit. 'I've, err, got a lot of stuff to do this evening.' Unless you counted eating dinner and masturbating myself to sleep 'a lot of stuff to do', that wasn't entirely true. Nevertheless, I didn't want to drag the date out until it exhausted itself. I reached for my wallet, unsure how she would react to my proposal of splitting the bill evenly.

'I'll get these!' she shouted, jumping up out of her seat.

_Finally! A girl who doesn't expect a guy to treat her like bloody royalty. _In an appreciative rather than perverted way, I snuck a quick glance at her behind as she sashayed away from our table. Very nice. A bit fatter than I'd usually go for but still very nice. Even if it was hiding underneath that hideous purple skirt. There it went, bobbing its way towards the counter. There it went, bobbing past the counter. There it went, bobbing out of the door and into the blustery street. Wait, where was she going? Maybe they didn't accept card payments – yes, it looked exactly like the kind of hoity-toity establishment that would refuse to accept the most modern method of payment over a decade into the 21st century. She'd probably just gone to get some cash out. I was impressed that she hadn't come back to ask me – maybe she was against chivalry too. When she came back, I'd ask for her number. Not because I wanted to see her again, but because it was polite. And perhaps I needed to spend my last few months on Earth being a bit more polite.

After ten minutes, I convinced myself that the nearest cash machine had broken. After twenty minutes, I wondered whether she'd been mugged. After thirty minutes, I swallowed my denial, paid the bill myself and left.

My mood hadn't improved by Monday morning; it darkened further when I was pulled into the Head's office to discuss an 'incident'. It had come to the attention of the shiny-headed twat that I had been driving into school in a vehicle 'inscribed with an offensive message'. Why couldn't these educational types speak in anything other than euphemisms? It drove me up the wall.

'Ah, yes. I assume you're referring to the misspelled 'motherfucker' scrawled across the two right-hand doors, John?'

His hamster cheeks grew warm and rosy; direct expression wasn't one of his beloved policies. In his opinion, a school was a business and should be run accordingly: with sterile, detached formality. He was a business manager who sat in his ivory tower and dictated his orders to his compliant minions. Thus, personal contact with his students or his staff was kept to an absolute minimum. Any more than minimal personal contact might lead him to discover the truth about his 'well-oiled machine': that his staff were overworked, underpaid and drained of all positive morale; and that his students were idle, malicious little knob-heads who deemed education to be about as important as learning the bowel movements of a toad. 'Indeed. Well, as I'm sure you can appreciate, this is completely unacceptable in an educational environment. And, please, call me Mr Harding.'

'It wasn't me who wrote it on there, John. Honestly.'

'Well,' he spluttered, 'I should hope not, Mr Bramwell. Regardless of who put it there, it must be removed immediately. Your vehicle is not to enter our school gates again until this has been done.'

I explained I couldn't really afford body work on my old Corsa and suggested that a pay-rise might help to resolve the issue, but old John was less than forthcoming and suggested that I book another appointment to see him with his P.A. on the way out. We could 'discuss any other matters then'. I knew what that meant. I also knew that Ruth, his P.A., was under strict instructions to ignore all requests from members of staff wanting appointments.

The next morning, I drove into the school gates at my usual time of 7:45am. By the time I reached my desk at 7:50, another e-mail had arrived from Ruth, requesting my presence in Mr Harding's office once again. Immediately. Apparently, crafting duct-tape carefully over the lines of each of the letters of the 'aforementioned word' was not an appropriate solution to the problem and, in fact, only managed to draw yet more attention the word itself. He didn't even notice that I'd corrected the original spelling mistake. Some people are so difficult to please.


	4. Chapter 4

**April (in so many ways)**

With two weeks off for the school holidays, my mood lifted dramatically at the beginning of April. Emry invited me over to theirs to celebrate Easter; according to Emma, I would find it 'fun' to search around her manicured garden with a three-year-old looking for small, chocolate eggs hidden in bushes. She seemed to have forgotten that I was 28 years old. I was an adult, living with another adult, and I intended to spend my time off behaving in a mature manner.

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

01/04/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

We are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the pack of 80 _Yorkshire Gold_ teabags that you sent to us through the post. Unfortunately, the 'gold' reference relates to the brand name only; as such, the tea bags do not contain any actual gold.

Our records indicate that this is not the first refusal letter you have received from us, and I would therefore like to take this opportunity to remind you of the purpose of 'Gold for Cash'. Our company offers customers the opportunity to sell their gold ('gold' here relating only to the precious metal) for its cash value. Therefore, we are in the market for genuine gold products, e.g. jewellery, coins, etc.

We hope that this explains the purpose of our company. Please ensure that any future items posted to our address are of the actual precious metal variety.

Yours sincerely,

Mr S. Travis

(Customer Service Representative)

We Buy Silver

P.O. Box 2292

London

SW7 2FN

02/04/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

Thank you for your interest in We Buy Silver. We regret to inform you that, on this occasion, the item you sent in for valuation cannot be accepted. Unfortunately, Dr. Oetker's Shimmer Spray Silver is a baking product, intended for human consumption, and therefore does not contain any actual silver. Please find the original item enclosed.

Should you find yourself in a position to sell any silver in the future, i.e. jewellery, silverware, coins, etc., we shall look forward to hearing from you again.

Yours sincerely,

Miss K. Harman

(Customer Care)

In fact, I was revelling so much in my carefree two weeks off that pro after pro dropped into the positive box: two weeks worth of lie-ins; no contact from my parents for over a month and counting; and the reintroduction of my favourite cereal onto the supermarket shelves. I even summoned enough confidence to finally go and confront April, the bitch who left me high and dry in that awful café. On Tuesday lunchtime, I stormed into Heart &amp; Sole to discover an older, more portly woman standing behind the counter. I stood helplessly in the middle of the shop floor for a moment.

'Can I help yer, duck?'

'Erm, well, I was looking for April but I can see that she's-'

'No problem, love – she's just upstairs. I'll call her for yer. Just gimme a tick.' She moved into the back of the shop where a grimy, white door separated the business from the flat upstairs. She opened it and called: 'April? April, love? One of yer friends is here to see yer!'

'Honestly, I'm not exactly what you'd call a friend – I'm more of, erm, an acquaintance,' I stammered.

'Oh aye, I see what yer mean,' she winked. 'Well, in that case I'll be sure not to disturb the two of yer. Go on, up yer get.' She was nodding her head towards the stairs. 'That's it, love – just move the counter-top out the way and up yer go.' She gave me a little shove and I started up the staircase, completely oblivious as to what I would say when I reached the top. It was one thing to come to this girl's place of work and give her a piece of my mind, but you couldn't just turn up at somebody's home and start shouting at them. I stopped halfway up and tried to compose myself.

'Is somebody there?' called a voice from within.

_ Fuck. Too late to sneak back down?_

Footsteps padded towards me. April appeared, wearing large, pink pyjamas covered in pictures of fat sheep jumping over fences. Her hair was scraped beneath a woolly hat. Without make-up, there was something beguilingly fragile about her face.

'Simon, hey! Fancy a cuppa?' She seemed almost pleased to see me – it threw me off a little.

'Erm, yeah. Ok.' _Yeah, you'll be sorry you made me a cup of tea when I throw it in your disrespectful face._

'Do you take sugar? Well, actually, I suppose I should ask yer whether you have milk as well; some people don't like milk in their tea. Can you believe that? Black tea! I mean, I kind of get black coffee but NOT tea. Personally, I think everythin' tastes better w' milk. My mum went on this diet once and she started havin' water with her porridge instead of milk on a morning, and she made me try it one day. EURGH! Have you ever tried water in yer porridge? It is _gross_. Seriously, don't try it. I felt like I was in Oliver bloomin' Twist or somethin'…'

After 15 minutes, April had barely taken a breath and I'd almost forgotten my reason for being there. She hadn't asked. She seemed to think nothing strange of a visit to her flat from someone she barely knew. When she disappeared into the kitchen for more biscuits, I seized my opportunity. 'Anyway, I just thought I would come round and find out what the hell- what exactly happened the other week? One minute you're off to pay the bill…the next minute you've gone.' She popped her head around the doorframe with eyes skyward and mouth open in thought. It took a few seconds for her to register what I was talking about. I felt a little stab of disappointment.

'Ohhhh! You mean after us date?' She started to laugh. 'Well, it's very presumptuous of yer to think that a lady would pay, for a start.'

'Actually, you offe-'

'Plus,' she continued, interrupting me entirely, 'the first rule of dating is that you should always leave them wantin' more. I heard that somewhere. I think it was one of them films with Jennifer Aniston or Sandra Bullock or someone like that – you know the films where he likes her; she doesn't like him, even though he's really fit and really rich, which, I mean, of course yer would; he moves on – finds another girl; and then, sod's law, she likes him!'

'That's a stupid rule.'

'Well, it's funny you should say that. Look where you are; it worked, didn't it?'

April offered to cook dinner, a full three-course dinner no less, for me that evening. She told me to be back at her flat for 11pm. I decided not to mention that the only people who eat dinner at 11 o'clock at night are tramps who hang around by the bins outside restaurants, waiting to demolish the scraps like the shameful vultures they are.

'I thought you said you weren't gonna be in for dinner?' Jay said, squirting a generous dollop of mayonnaise on the plate next to his microwave lasagne.

'No, I'm not. I'm going out at 11.'

'11 o'clock? Where are you going for bloody dinner, Australia?'

'April's cooking for me at hers.'

'Ahhh, I see. _April_. So it's a dinner date. A very, very _late_ dinner date. Hey, do you think she's doing that double-booking thing where she fits in two guys for dinner in one night? Like, maybe the first guy's coming round at 8, then she's got time to clear him out at about half 10 to start all over again with you for the second sitting?'

'She's just a friend,' I responded. Jay's double-shift idea bothered me, but I thought it important to remain nonchalant.

'A female, who you've just met, is cooking you dinner at her place. But you're just friends?'

'Exactly.' Hearing it from his mouth made it clear that indeed it _was_ a date. There was a tingling deep down inside me, right where my enthusiasm used to reside.

'Date or no date,' he continued, 'I'm just glad you're feeling better, man. It's about time you got yourself back on track.' If Jay thought one eco-hippy chick could make me forget about suicide, he had another thing coming. But why not enjoy myself while I still could?

Heart &amp; Sole was over a mile away but I decided to walk this time; if I drove, I couldn't drink. And alcohol was sure to ease any social discomfort I might feel. Plus, by leaving the flat at 10:50pm, I could ensure I'd be a couple of minutes late. If she _was_ double-booking me, the least I could do was keep her waiting.

When I arrived, most of the shop floor's lights were off and there was a 'Closed' sign shaped like a cartoon fish hanging in the window. Inside, the same portly lady from lunchtime was cleaning the surfaces, scrubbing them so hard that the fat at the tops of her arms jiggled. I realised I still hadn't asked for April's phone number, so I couldn't text her to come down and let me in, but the middle-aged woman noticed me lurking outside and came to unlock the door.

'Twice in one day! You're eager, aren't yer?' Her apron was covered in grease and she wore blue rubber gloves that pinched the tops of her forearms. 'You know the way!' she sang, returning to her scrubbing. She seemed tired after her long shift and not particularly interested in chitchat, which I appreciated.

Approaching April's flat for a second time, I realised what a daze I'd been in that morning. I hadn't noticed the swirled, orange and brown patterns on the carpet or the way they made me feel dizzy if I focused on them. I hadn't noticed the gritty, white wallpaper peeling off the walls on either side of the staircase. I hadn't noticed the empty takeaway containers littering the entrance hall – it seemed April was a bit of a slob. Searching for my host, I entered the lounge. Each of the four living room walls was painted a different colour: pink, green, orange and brown. In the centre of the room stood a plastic table - the kind you'd buy from Ikea for a child's playroom. A piece of purple fabric covered the sofa and I realised I didn't yet feel comfortable enough to sit down. There was still no sign of April. I backed out of the room, noticing on my way that the door to the lounge had been removed from its hinges and was nowhere to be seen.

'April?' I called down the hallway.

'In here!' she shouted from the end of the corridor. 'Sorry, I just got out the shower. Come and sit in here while I get ready!'

_Rude. She knew I was coming at 11._ I walked down towards the source of the sound. It seemed that only one door remained in place throughout the whole flat; I hoped the room behind it was the bathroom. The carpet felt almost sticky underneath my feet and the stench of old oil occupied the air. My good humour faded and I felt unsure as to why I'd come. At the end of the corridor, I entered into what I assumed was her bedroom. Standing in front of the mirror, combing her hair without a care in the world, was April – entirely stark bollock naked. 'Shit! Fuck! Sorry – I am so sorry.' I spun so quickly towards the exit that I demolished a hat rack on my way, spattering Stetsons, bowlers and what I'm pretty sure was a Santa hat across the floor.

'Oh, Simon. What are yer like?' Casually, with no regard whatsoever for the fact that she was still completely starkers, April strutted over, bent down and began flinging items back in the direction of the rack. 'Sorry, I haven't had chance to decide on an outfit for our date yet.'

_Seriously, you can't decide on an outfit, so you just walk around naked in front of a stranger until you do? Wait – she said 'date'._ A trickle of nerves skipped down my spine. I still didn't know exactly where I was supposed to look. 'God, I really am sorry – I'll- I'll go and wait for you in the, erm, the lounge,' I stuttered.

'Oh come on, you're not that much of a prude, are yer? Christ, they're only breasts – we've all got 'em! Well, half of the population anyway. Come in and sit down, will yer? I won't be long.' I was rooted to the spot. April's sprawling, pale nipples were staring me out. For someone carrying a bit of extra weight, she had a magnificent body: big, bouncing chest; slim waist; curves in all the right places. I mean, it wasn't like I'd never seen a naked woman before, but I usually had to do a lot more than just show up at their house to get them to drop their knickers. 'If yer uncomfortable, I can put me dressin' gown on?' she asked, cocking her head to one side as though she was challenging me.

'No, God no - not uncomfortable. I just didn't want you thinking I was some kind of perv, you know, bursting in on you like that,' I assured, hoping more than anything that this was some kind of peculiar come-on tactic.

'I don't mind people bursting in on me, Simon.' She winked, and it was difficult to figure out whether or not she was joking. 'It's my fault really. I asked Dad to tek all the doors down when him and Mum let me move in to the flat. I know it sounds silly but it was so, kind of, claustrophobic before. All dark and small. I prefer everything out in the open…as you can see!' She laughed again, gesturing to her naked body. She didn't seem to sense the awkwardness of the atmosphere, but she walked over to the bedside table and turned on the radio to ease the silence between us. The pounding rhythm of late night dance music swarmed the air, confusing the ambiance even further. I'd certainly never been on a date like this before: we hadn't even eaten and here we were, in her bedroom, listening to music, and she was nude. Wet hair still dangling around her bare shoulders, April moved over to the bed and sat down, patting the space next to her for me to join.

_Oh God. This is happening. Ok, Simon: be cool. You haven't been intimate with anyone other than Cheryl for quite a while now. Try not to get too excited too quickly._

I sat down next to her and she moved her lips onto mine. I would've sworn that I barely fancied the lunatic but my body seemed to think otherwise: my palms began to sweat and someone appeared to be squeezing my heart in a tight fist.

_Come on, Simon. Keep it together._

I was used to Cheryl Fenwick's taste of stale, menthol cigarettes mixed with dry gin but April's mouth tasted different. Like chocolate. And she had thin, silky lips. She moved in closer to me and placed her hand gently on the top of my leg.

_Shiiiiiiit - getting too excited. Think unsexy thoughts. Think unsexy thoughts. Grandma. Both of my grandmas are dead…but then I guess that should be even more off-putting?_

She flicked her tongue against mine and simultaneously moved her hand upwards.

_FUCK! Grey hair. Wrinkly skin. Saggy boobs. Concentrate, Simon!_

Thirteen extremely challenging minutes later, I had one massive pro to add to my box.

Pro: Walking in on girls when they're getting ready.

Downstairs, the lights were off and the clean surfaces reflected the metallic moonlight. April's hand squeezed mine tightly and she led me through the darkness. She had changed into a dark blue dressing gown that looked as though it belonged to someone three times her size. 'I promised you a three-course meal,' she began, '…and a three-course meal you shall receive!' Turning on the light next to the fryer, April splayed her hands out in a '_ta da'_ motion. I noticed, smugly, that her cheeks were still rosy from our exploits upstairs. 'Right, co-chef,' she said, placing a hair net over me, 'we'd better get to work.'

As it turned out, April had made somewhat of a hobby experimenting with what foods could, and could not, be deep-fried. Tried-and-tested success stories included bacon, slices of pizza and whole Kit-Kats, whereas cereal, spaghetti and soup had all made it onto the 'Never Again' list. In fact, during the soup escapade, April had managed to ruin one of the fryers and cost her parents a small fortune in repair bills. Tonight, however, we would dine on some slightly safer options: deep-fried garlic bread (a new, never-tested-before venture); fish and chips; and deep-fried Crème Eggs (April's personal favourite).

Back upstairs, after almost an hour of frying, we tucked into our greasy banquet. As April's hair gradually dried, I noticed that the strands were no longer their usual green but now flaunted a vivid yellow. She explained that she coloured her hair according to the seasons; it was a tradition she'd started as a teenager and she found it helped her to place the times and dates when she looked back through old photographs. She said it helped her terrible memory. For example, if she had green hair in the photograph, she knew it was taken in the spring (January-March). Yellow hair signified summer (April-August), whereas orange hair meant autumn (September-October) and blue represented winter (November-December). I didn't bother pointing out that her seasonal divisions were entirely incorrect; I didn't get the impression she really cared for what was strictly true and what wasn't. April seemed to like doing things her own way – differently to everyone else's. Her name was a misnomer for a start; she was actually born in May. Darren and Claire, I also found out, were not her natural parents. She'd been adopted as a baby. She didn't know much about her birth mother, except that Social Services had taken away all of the children she'd given birth to. Since April wasn't her birth mother's first child, her dad once wondered whether her birth parents had planned out 12 children, naming each one after a different month. Another of her dad's theories behind her name was that she'd been due to arrive in April but she'd come late ('fussy bugger' that she was – her dad's words, not mine). However, her mum soon doused water over that theory when she pointed out that April's birthday was the 23rd of May and that any doctor worth his salt would never let a pregnant woman go much more than two weeks overdue. Her parents had been given the option to change her name when they adopted her, but they'd opted to safeguard a piece of her past.

'April?'

'Hmmm?' she mumbled through a mouthful of melted Crème Egg.

'I've got to be honest. When I first met you, I thought you were… Well, a total nutter.'

She laughed. 'Why's that?'

'Let's just say I'm not exactly used to people approaching me in the local takeaway and talking about how fast snot travels when you sneeze.'

'Ha, I suppose not.'

'So, why were you in those other chip shops talking about all that revolting stuff?'

'Heart &amp; Sole does THE best fish and chips in the city, without a doubt. But good news doesn't travel as fast as bad news. So, all I need to do every now and then is go and spread a little bad news about the other local chippies. How else do yer think my mum and dad have kept Heart &amp; Sole runnin' for so long? We're in a recession, you do realise?' April had a way of explaining the strangest of behaviours as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. It was fascinating.

At 3:13am, stuffed and sexually sedated, my first official date with April came to an end. I walked home giddy, despite the fact that I hadn't touched a drop of alcohol all night. There was something intoxicating about time with her – it provided the thrill of using a new substance you didn't know enough about. You knew that you should probably stay away from it, learn about the dangers and the side effects first, but it felt so damn good you just wanted to jab another hit into your bloodstream. That night, I slept more serenely than I had done in years.

Oh, and, just in case you were wondering, deep-fried garlic bread is a definite no go. Unless you like the taste of cold vegetable oil.

By Thursday morning, I'd gone cold turkey for long enough. I tried to convince myself that it was just the flashbacks of her stretched out naked on the bed that made me hungry to see her again. The promise I'd made to myself not to get involved with any girls hadn't been forgotten, but who said it had to develop into anything serious with April? The time we'd spent together so far hardly signified the roots of a serious relationship. I just wanted to have a bit of fun before I died. Against Jay's advice, I was ready for my next dose. April didn't have a mobile phone (I'd found out, when I eventually worked up the courage to ask); she said they always ended up lost, stolen or submerged in some kind of liquid, so she'd given up owning one. Without the option to call or text (texting being my preferred method – less personal), I needed to do things the old-fashioned way.

'Get ready! We're going out,' I announced as I entered her flat for the third time. April was sitting in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by piles of half-hacked magazines and newspapers. She bounded up into the air, scattering debris in her path. 'Where are we going? Where are we going?' She was literally bouncing.

'It's a surprise. What's all this?'

'Last night, after work, I had THE most brilliant idea! I'm going to redecorate. Redecorate the entire flat! I stayed up all night making a style collage. Collages are great. We used to make 'em in Textiles at school whenever we started a new project. And I loved, loved, LOVED Textiles!'

'Oh, I see.' Her enthusiasm kindled a grin onto my face that was hard to supress. 'Well, it looks great but do you think it could wait 'til later? I want to leave in ten minutes.'

'Yes! But first yer'll have to come and help me pick out somethin' to wear.'

Two rather sweaty hours later, we finally approached the area of the city that housed the University buildings. Choosing an outfit had taken somewhat longer than I'd anticipated; it seemed April wasn't the kind of girl I could watch undress without getting involved, although I think that was her plan all along.

'Was it Sheffield University you went to?' I asked.

'Oh, I never went to University,' she responded. 'I wasn't very well when I was at school. I managed to sit some GCSEs but my grades weren't good enough for me to take A-Levels, because of all my absence. When I left school, I went to work at a Wildlife Park. I'd done work experience there when I was at school – yer know, when they let yer out of school for two weeks to go and see what it's like to 'ave a job?' I nodded. 'Well, it was AWESOME. They were literally the best two weeks of my whole life! So, instead of doing A-Levels, I went back there and got a job full-time. I got to feed the penguins, bathe the elephants, and one time they even let me do this talk thing to, like, a hundred people about the lemurs and their habitat. About how they live in small groups. And how they love eatin' fruit and all that. It was ace.'

'Then, why did you leave?'

'Because Shorty died.'

'Who was Shorty?'

'My favourite giraffe. Her real name was Bertha but she didn't like it. She was beautiful - really elegant. Big, long lashes. Hey, is this where we're going?'

I looked up at the towering, grey exterior of the Arts' Tower. 'Yep, this is it.'

Once inside the entrance hall to the building, April was highly excited by the sight of the Paternoster, a lift that moves in a circular motion without ever stopping for passengers to board or disembark. The first of its kind dated back to 1868, so a lot of people got pretty animated about it. Personally, I found it hard to see it as anything other than what it was: a lift. And lifts didn't really get me going. However, that Paternoster was the key to testing the site for my New Year's Eve plan, so I needed to simulate at least some interest for it. 'Follow my lead,' I whispered to April as we approached the young woman sitting behind Reception. 'Hi there,' I began. 'My name is John Matthews and this is my friend, Bec-'

'Anita Shower,' April intruded, sticking her arm across the desk and shaking the woman's hand. 'Wonderful to meet you.'

'Yes, thank you…Anita,' I continued. _Why the hell couldn't she make up a bloody normal fake name?_ 'We are interested in taking a closer look at your Paternoster. We read about it on the internet – history buffs, I'm afraid, both of us. I believe it's the largest one left in the UK?'

'It is indeed,' the young woman replied, clearly feeling sorry for two losers who had nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon than examine the workings of a lift. Pushing a black clipboard in our direction, she motioned for us to fill in our details on the sign-in sheet. 'It goes all the way up to the 19th floor and back down again. When in the Paternoster, please keep only two persons to a cart and remember to be very careful when entering and exiting the lift. You'll need to sign back out as you exit but, other than that, enjoy!' And that was it; she allowed us straight through the turnstile.

'Well, that was easier than I anticipated,' I murmured as we boarded a cart up to floor 19. _I only hope it's this easy to get in on New Year's Eve_.

Once we reached the top, I reminded April to keep playing along and approached a student milling around outside one of the lecture theatres. He was practically skeletal with ginger hair and an unfortunate amount of acne for someone in the early stages of adulthood. 'Excuse me,' I opened, 'we're the Building Control Officers for this property and we're here to carry out some maintenance. Could you point us in the direction of the access route to the roof platform?' We were in luck. The idiot led us right to the door without asking any questions. Our fortune extended even further when we found the access door to be propped open with a black, rubber brick.

'Normally, it's locked,' the half-wit student explained, 'but there were some other maintenance guys in this morning. I guess they must have left it open for you.'

'Brilliant, thanks.' I waited for the skinny little runt to leave before I held the door open for April. 'Ladies first,' I said, motioning for her to go ahead of me like a true gentleman.

'Mr Matthews, I had no idea you were such a good liar!' She was grinning and wore a look of genuine admiration. 'But I still have no idea what we're doin' up here?'

'Well, Miss Shower, I'm a man of many talents. And as for why we're here: that information, sadly, is still classified.' She giggled and started to climb the metal stairs to the roof, whilst I relished the sight of her ample behind shifting left to right under her floaty dress.

The view was even better than I could've expected. From the rooftop, a vast, 360-degree vision of Sheffield sprawled before our eyes: little buildings in orange, white and turquoise, huddled together in the middle of the city like abandoned Lego bricks; hundreds of miniature cars scurrying along the grey network of roads; miles and miles of rolling green hilltops melting into the distant horizon. For a long time, neither of us spoke – it seemed a scene like this could even render April speechless. In the end, it was me who broke the silence first.

'April, there's something I need to tell you – about the reason I brought you up here.'

'Yeah?'

'Well, this building has a kind of, err, special importance for me. Or at least it will. Soon.'

'What are you talkin' about, Simon?'

I felt nervous – not like when I told Jay. This was different; she didn't know me like he did. What if she thought I was crazy and tried to refer me to some psychiatric unit? I tried to start vague, so as not to come across like a suicidal maniac. 'It's just- well, there's something I plan to, erm, do, and in order to, well, do it, I'm going to need this building.'

'Yer not proposin' to us already are yer?' Her laughter punched through my discomfort. 'Yer better not be 'cause I had a friend once – Rebecca, her name was. Well, see, she'd only been goin' out w' this fella fer about a month and all of a sudden he takes her up t-'

'No, no, no – can I stop you there? I'm not proposing. At all. As in, that is so, _so_ far away from what I'm doing. It's, erm, well, it's kind of difficult to explain.' And then I just let it out. Told her everything. Just like I'd told everything to Jay that morning in January. How I didn't see the point. How my life was empty. How I hated my flat, my job, my (lack of) friends. How my own future was one I wouldn't regret missing. How I hadn't planned to meet anyone this year because I'd made my decision and although I liked her, I wasn't going to stop my pros and cons idea. How this was the building from which I intended to jump. How yes, we were having fun together and yes, she had already appeared in my pros box once or twice (_try twenty, at least_), but I wouldn't allow her to become an obstacle. My end of year goal remained the same and she was welcome to come along for the ride until then, as long as she promised not to try and stop me. I hadn't even meant to be so brutal, but it was as though April opened a tap inside me that I couldn't turn off. She just sat, quietly, soaking up everything I had to say without responding, without passing judgement. She was so receptive, so enthralled, almost, by what I was saying that I found myself opening up about things I'd never even told Jay. How worthless I felt around my family. How my mother thought I was a coward and my dad labelled me 'difficult' following my behaviour as a teenager. The words cascaded from my mouth, as the running tap erupted into a burst pipe.

'I guess I got used to that feeling of inadequacy at a young age. Growing up, Emma had it all: beauty, top grades and sporting prowess - she was captain of both the netball and hockey teams from primary school all the way through. Most nauseatingly of all, she was modest with it. Boys queued around the block just to hold her hand and every girl wanted to be her best friend. As her younger brother, I was bound to play the part of second best. How could I not? Sure, I was _moderately_ good-looking. I got _good_ grades and my sporting skills were _average_, but I was socially awkward and sometimes found it difficult to make friends. In other words, I was a much less brilliant version of Emma.'

April smiled at me in reassurance, silently encouraging me to continue.

'For years I was honestly okay with it all – truthfully, I was,' I said. 'Sibling rivalry seemed, well, natural - the friends I did have were dealing with their own forms of it - and it was only to be expected that Mum and Dad would favour Emma subconsciously. I mean, who wouldn't? Anyway, I did my best to impress them and they, in turn, tried to treat us equally. Well, until-'

'Until what?'

I said nothing. I could feel my nostrils flaring, feel the bile rising up inside my throat.

'Simon?'

Still nothing. I hadn't spoken to anyone about it for well over ten years. And, really, I knew Dad should be the first person to hear it.

'It's ok,' April whispered. 'There's no pressure to tell me anythin' yer don't want to.'

'Until…until over a decade ago. The 4th May, 2000, to be precise. From that day on, Emma and I would never be treated equally again.' I wasn't ready to divulge any more than that and April didn't push me. In fact, she barely said anything at all.

On the way out of the building, after signing Mr Matthews and Miss Shower out, April presented me with a small set of keys dangling from a silver hoop. 'What are these for?' I asked.

'The security guy on reception – I nabbed his keys. He wasn't looking. Not a great security guard, eh? Now you can get up to that roof whenever you want to, even when it's locked.' She placed the set of keys in my hand, kissed me lightly on the cheek and ran off to the tram stop. Apparently, another of our dates had come to an abrupt end.

Pro: April - the pilferer.

Unable to contact April via mobile, I called Heart &amp; Sole the next day. A man's voice answered and told me that it was 'Darren speaking': her dad. He sounded friendly and cheerful, despite being at work on a Friday afternoon. Not being the kind of person likely to make a fantastic first impression with parents, I told him I was 'a friend from school' and he thankfully put me through to April's flat upstairs without further questioning. Our third official date was subsequently scheduled for Saturday lunchtime, where April agreed to meet me outside a pub on West Street. I kept the rest of the details to myself, sensing she was a fan of surprises.

I arrived ten minutes late only to find that, once again, I would be the one waiting for _her_.

Con: Finding a girl with even worse timekeeping than me.

When she finally arrived (twenty-five minutes late), I was struck dumb yet again by her choice of attire. Did this girl get dressed in the dark? A very normal, black, long-sleeved dress hung loosely around her body. That, alone, would have been fine. Great, in fact. But when combined with a pale blue beret and, no shit, tights that were purple on one leg and yellow on the other, she looked like a circus act. I shook my head in faux embarrassment and held the door open for her as she skipped inside.

I had expected April to act differently around me, now that she knew of my New Year's Eve plans. I had expected she might come armed with disparaging comments about my suicide mission, as Jay had done once the weight of my words dropped anchor. Perhaps she too would have popped into the doctors' surgery, or the local Samaritans' office, picking up leaflets about coping with depression or how to battle those thoughts of ending it all. Perhaps she would also join that guilt-ridden plight to save me from myself, or whatever it was Jay had attempted to do. However, my big revelation didn't seem to have affected April in the slightest. She was as buoyant as ever and certainly didn't appear to be hiding any anti-suicide propaganda in her handbag. 'So, why this place?' she asked once we had selected a table and sat down to peruse the menu.

_Well, if you're going to act normal, then so will I._ 'See those big screens over there? I thought it'd be fun if we placed a few bets online and watched the action from here.' I was pretty pleased with my plan for the date: a bit of lunch, a few drinks, casual gambling, a few more drinks, and then hopefully back to hers. I wasn't ready to take her back to mine – Jay eating a ready meal on the sofa with his hairy gut hanging over the waistband of his three-day-old pants hardly set the mood.

'Action? What action?'

'The Grand National – how can you not know that it's the Grand National today? Don't you listen to the news?'

She shook her head. 'It's too sad. They should report on all the amazing things that happen in the world instead of being so bloody pessimistic. I mean, all over the planet there are babies being born, charities helping the less fortunate, scientists learning how to cure diseases, orangutans learning to swim the breast stroke – that's the type of news I want to hear about. But they hardly ever cover those stories. It's all hurricanes and wars. If they jazzed it up a little, I might watch it.'

Amused by April's take on the news, I headed over to the bar to place our orders: steak pie for me and gammon, egg and chips for April. How she was not sick of chips was a mystery to me, but it was nice to be out with a girl who ate meat. Even better, a girl who didn't feel the need to pretend that all she wants is a garden salad to satisfy her delicate, feminine appetite, but who then tucks in to half of your proper food across the table.

When I returned, April had swivelled her chair around to face out of the window and away from the bar, the screens, and our actual table itself. She held her hands up like blinkers around the sides of her face and stared straight out onto the street.

'Erm, what are you doing?'

'Well, I don't actually agree with horseracing, so I'm afraid I won't be doing any bettin' or anythin' like that. I'm happy to stay here w' you while you do though.'

'Riiiight. And why are you facing the wrong way?'

'Oh, I can't watch it either,' she responded. 'I mean, don't get me wrong: I love horses. Seriously love them. They're such amazing animals. Did yer know that they can sleep both standing up an' lying down? And they only sleep for about 3 hours a day? They have longer pregnancies than humans too – it's about 11 months for them. Imagine that! I'd be well fed up, me. Then again, if you think horses have got it bad, a female sperm whale carries her young for about 19 months. Did yer know that? There's a type of shark as well - I think it's called a frilly shark - and that's got the longest pregnancy I've ever heard of: 3 and a half years! I don't think humans would bother havin' kids if that's how long it took. Honestly, I don't. It'd probably be better that way – yer know, slow the population down and everythin'.'

She'd lost me by this point; I was still in need of clarification. 'So, sorry, why exactly can't you watch the racing?'

'Yeah, well that's what I'm sayin' – I love horses, but that's exactly why I can't stand to see people competing with 'em. I don't think it's fair on the horses. I used to watch Grand National every year 'cause me dad used to let me and our Hannah pick a horse each and he'd put a bet on for us. The year I stopped supportin' it, I bet on this horse – I can't remember what he was called now – but I bet on him, and he ran so well, and he was miles ahead of all the others, he crossed the finish line first…and they gave first prize to someone else. It broke my heart. He had run and run and run his bollocks off, finished in record time and was stood there waitin' fer his prize and fer everyone to applaud him. His little face just crumpled when he saw them all celebratin' around this other horse. Honestly, just because his jockey fell off, it was like his win didn't even count any more. Poor thing – it was so cruel. Haven't watched a single race since then.'

April and I decided that it was probably best not to place any bets – I didn't want her reliving her childhood trauma and acting any more strangely than she already was. Instead, we each picked a horse that we would have bet on, in theory, just for fun, and had a few drinks instead (facing the window at all times, of course). I placed my imaginary money on 'Auroras Encore', an Irish-bred but Yorkshire-trained racehorse with a mixed track record but good odds. April chose 'On His Own' because he sounded lonely and she felt sorry for him.

Several hours on, in a haze of cheap beer, we discovered that April's horse had fallen and failed to finish the course. Mine, on the other hand, only went and fucking won the entire thing.

Con: Letting batty stories put me off a sure thing.

Luckily, back at hers, April was able to make it up to me.

I awoke on Monday morning to a voicemail from Emma. Early on, I had figured out how to set my mobile to forward all calls from certain people straight to voicemail. This ingenious development in technology had saved me a lot of hassle. I made a pot of coffee before I faced listening to it; I'd need caffeine to get through this.

'Simon? It's me: Emma. You're not answering your phone, as usual! I've tried the house but that line doesn't appear to be working either. You might want to get that fixed? Anyway, I'm just phoning to remind you about Henry's birthday party on the 28th. It's going to be an absolute _hoot_! His mum and I are planning the entire thing and guess what the theme is?'

_Everybody come and look at what a posh twat I am?_

'Regatta Gala! We're trying to organise an actual little rowing race on the Thames and everything, you know, to take him back to his days at Oxford. Just a friendly race, of course. It'll be so fantastic to all go out and get some fresh air! Afterwards, we're having everyone back to ours for a little boat-themed soiree, you know, all red, white and blue balloons – very nautical. I've ordered some fake seagulls, fishing nets, anchors, that sort of thing – and we're getting a little fish piñata and bubble machine for the children. I'll make some party nibbles – healthy, of course. In fact, Ellie's given me a great vegan recipe for some almond meal and Goji berry scones…I shall have to search that out. Anyway, it's going to be the wildest bash of the year! With it being his 35th, his mum and I thought we'd really push the boat out…oh gracious! Did you see what I did there? I just hope we don't go a little…overboard! Ok, ok, that one was on purpose. Goodness me, I'll have to write those down to use at the party! So, I simply MUST get the numbers sorted; you're welcome to bring someone if you like but you have to let me know ASAP. Oh, and you'll never guess who might be over from Portugal just in time to attend? Uncle Jame-'

I slammed my finger on the phone and hung up. That wasn't enough to relieve the hot, red sensation cursing through my body. I picked up my mug of coffee and sent it surging through the air. Some of the boiling liquid escaped as it left my hand, latching onto the skin of my wrist and searing just enough to distract me from breaking anything else. I watched my favourite mug smash into tiny fragments, leaving ugly brown stains weeping down the wall.

With 6 days to go until I returned to school, I needed to focus on enjoying my holiday and making the most of the rest of my time off. Ignoring voicemails from my family would be step one. I knew I'd been neglecting Jay a little over the past week, so I thought I'd clear some time for us to hang out, i.e. play FIFA and drink beer. Alcohol would help me to take my mind off things. Plus, I felt it best to leave April alone for a few days. Her parents had been angry that she missed her Saturday lunchtime shift and I felt guilty for inviting her out. She didn't tell me she was supposed to be working; she said she'd forgotten all about it, but that she needed to work a few extra shifts this week to make it up to her mum and dad. By the time Jay got up around 11am, I'd set up the PlayStation and filled the fridge with two six-packs of Budweiser. He gave me a man hug, called it 'the best wake-up a man could wish for' and settled himself down with a controller. His shift didn't start until 3pm and he reckoned work was always more interesting after a few beverages.

By 1pm, he'd beaten me five times and showed no sign of relenting. In my defence, he probably spent about 80% of his time outside work playing computer games. He spent the other 20% watching porn and crap T.V. For this reason, I didn't feel too humiliated. As our sixth game commenced, he decided to let me play as Barcelona, while he took Rotherham United - perhaps he did want to give me a fighting chance after all. I was four beers in and touched by his kind gesture, so I felt somewhat ready to tackle the uncomfortable, emotional stuff. 'So, err, how's things with your mum and all that?' I asked.

He paused and I saw the skin of his fingertips change to white as he gripped the controller more tightly; I think it was a distraction tactic – no guy wants to end up crying in front of one of their mates. 'Yeah, not too bad…considering. The most recent round of chemo has made her feel pretty sick most of the time, but – COME ON, SKARZ, KEEP YOUR FUCKING EYES ON THE BALL – but her doctor says that's to be expected. She's on her last three-week cycle of it at the moment, so we should know more after that.' The sounds of our controllers clicking filled the silence until Jay paused the game and went to raid the fridge for two more beers. 'How's things with you and the chip shop girl?'

'Her _name_ is April,' I found myself snapping. I tried to follow up with a friendlier, more casual tone, 'It's going all right but, I mean, it's just a bit of fun. No big deal.' While Jay was busy searching for the bottle opener, I took the opportunity to _accidentally_ knock the game off pause and run straight at his team's unprotected goal. 'YESSSSSSSSSSSS! MESSI: YOU BEAUTY!'

'You cheating little bastard!' Jay shouted as he headed back from the kitchen. 'Well, you can open your own bloody beer – and good luck with that, because the bottle opener's gone missing.' He raised his bottle to his mouth and used his teeth to prize it open.

At that moment, as though in celebration of my goal, the buzzer vibrated through the flat, indicating that the pizza delivery man had arrived. 'I'll get it,' I said, rising from the sofa as Jay sat down. 'I need a piss anyway. Plus, I need a break from all this _winning_.' Watching Jay's hand rise in his predictable middle-fingered gesture, I grinned and headed over to press the entry button to the flat. The button was a little worse for wear, so we had to hold it down hard until we heard the heavy front door swing open and the subsequent sound of footsteps on the metal stairs.

I was still mid-piss by the time the footsteps reached the top of the stairs and the doorbell rang. 'Jay?' I called. 'Can you get that, mate? I'm in the toilet. My wallet's on my bed.' I heard him heave his great mass off the sofa and trudge into my bedroom. 'Now, don't be alarmed by what you see – that is what a _normal_ bedroom looks like. See that blue stuff on the floor? That's called carpet – you might be able to see yours too, if you actually _used_ your wardrobe to store your clothes.' He ignored my jibes entirely and went to answer the door.

When the first words out of his mouth were: 'Who are you?' I knew it wasn't the visitor we were hoping for. I washed my hands and headed out into the hallway. Standing on the welcome mat Jay bought as a joke, which read:

OH SHIT.

NOT YOU AGAIN.

was April. Red rings surrounded her watery eyes and streaks of blue mascara lay smudged all over her freckled face; she looked a little like a clown who'd recently been in a fight. I stood silently, unsure how to proceed with Jay watching. Crying girls made me uncomfortable at the best of times.

Jay was the first to break the hollow lull. 'April, I assume?' She nodded. 'I'm Jay - Simon's super hot, trendy flatmate, whom I'm sure he's told you _plenty_ about.' He extended his hand towards her. 'Pleasure to meet you.'

April laughed and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She moved forward, shoving Jay's hand out of the way and enveloping him in an over-friendly hug. 'It's great to meet you too.'

He held her shoulders back out at arms-length and surveyed her up and down. 'Well, I can certainly see why Simon's been favouring time with you over time with me for the last week – just look at you!' April grinned over at me and used the sleeve of her brown fur coat to wipe her wet nose. 'And then look at me!' He pointed down at the mountainous protrusion of his stomach, which was sagging out from underneath the hem of his black Blink 182 t-shirt. 'It's alright, though – this might _look_ like fat, but it's actually all the energy I need to power the luuurve machine.' He winked at April and she broke into laughter once again. You had to give it to him: he might have been a dickhead sometimes, but Jay had a real knack when it came to cheering people up.

Several hours later, Jay had left for his late shift and April had mollified her tears using the remainder of the Budweiser in the fridge. Apparently, the reason behind the upset was that she'd settled down at work with a couple of deep-fried Crème Eggs after a busy lunch shift and her mum had made a remark about her weight. 'Are you sure you should be eating those?' April mimicked. 'That's what she said. Stupid cow. I mean, for Christ's sake, if yer want to call me fat, at least have the decency to actually SAY it. I hate it when people tiptoe around a subject, using their words like little cattle prods to jab and poke at somethin' from a distance. Anyway, she knows it's not my fault I've put on weight. It's been goin' on fer years – it's all because of the Lith- the, err, the medication my doctor put me on.' I wanted to ask what medication she meant, but I had a feeling that might be a little invasive. Plus, as long as it wasn't for anything I could catch, it didn't really matter. She didn't look like the kind of girl who'd have sexually-transmitted diseases or anything like that, so I was probably safe. I decided it was best not to ask. Plus, having allowed the notion of sex into my head, I now had an inevitable erection and pretended that there was something fascinating in my bedroom that I really needed to show her.

'Have you got a hairdryer I can borrow?' She was post-shower – all soft, pink skin and towel-less. I was embarrassed to admit it, but I did actually use a hairdryer whenever Jay had his speakers on so loudly that I was sure he wouldn't hear it. Otherwise, if I slept on wet hair, it would go all frizzy and crap-looking by the morning. I directed her towards the first drawer of my dresser and tried to ignore her sniggers.

'April?'

'Hmmm?'

'Not that I mind you coming round or anything – because honestly, I don't – but how did you know where I lived?'

'When you went off to the toilet the other day, when we were not-watching the horse racing, I had a little look inside your wallet; your address was on your driving licence. I hope you don't mind. I guess I just wanted to check you weren't some demented, psycho killer or anything.'

'And, if I were, you'd find that information in my wallet, would you? Like, perhaps I'd just happen to have my membership card for the Society of Mass Murderers and Serial Killers readily available?'

'Mmmm, yeah.' April had clearly stopped listening and was busy rooting around inside my dresser-drawer. 'Simon, what's a bucket list?' she asked.

'What?'

'Here,' she was waving a piece of paper in the air. 'You've got one in this drawer. It says: Simon Bramwell's Bucket List.'

_Shit._ 'Oh, yeah. Right. Well, that's private actually, so if you could just-'

'Who's Emma?'

'Give it here.'

'Yer've never been in a fight? Never EVER? And yer call yerself a MAN?'

'April, just hand it ov-'

'Tell Dad the truth? The truth about what?' Her voice was animated, eager to discover more about my cryptic scribbling. She must have been stung by my expression as soon as she looked up; she dropped the list onto the bed at once and dried her hair in silence.

By the time she finished, I had an idea to distract from further questions. 'A bucket list is kind of like a To Do list,' I explained, 'but it features things you'd like to achieve before you die, or _kick the bucket_; that's where the name comes from. They can be big things or small things – serious or silly. Just whatever goals you have. Some people choose countries they hope to visit, foods they'd like to try, or you can add big aims like getting married and having kids. It's up to you.'

Her huge eyes lit up like two full moons. 'Can I borrow a pen?'

In the twenty minutes that followed, I discovered the following pieces of information: April couldn't write without sticking her tongue out in concentration; I couldn't watch April's concentration face without smiling; and April had some extremely odd life aims.

April Barnes' Bucket List

High five a monkey.

Use a funny, fake name at Starbucks.

Be happy forever.

Go Trick-or-Treating.

Stroke a squirrel in the park.

Get those braces with the cool multi-coloured elastic bands on.

Sleep overnight in a zoo.

Eat dinner with strangers in a restaurant.

Moon somebody important.

Hire two private investigators and get them to follow each other.

Find my parents.

'So, these are all the things I have to do by the end of 2013?' she asked, proudly surveying her handiwork.

'No, not for you. You've got your whole life to fulfil yours; it's only me who needs to get a move on.'

'Well, why don't we do it together? Like a pact? Both of us have to tick off as many as we can by the end of this year. And we can help each other. It'll be FUN!' She seemed so enthused by the idea that it was very difficult to refuse. I realise how morbid our little agreement probably sounds to most people, but April wasn't like anyone else I'd ever met: she even managed to inject entertainment into the idea of ticking off your final deeds as you counted down to death. With her backing me, I felt that I actually might have a chance at completing my bucket list after all. In fact, I was beginning to wonder how I'd ever got anything done before I met her.


	5. Chapter 5

**May**

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

01/05/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

We are sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the _Fool's Gold_ DVD (starring Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey) that you sent to us through the post. Unfortunately, this item does not contain any actual gold.

Our records indicate that this is not the first refusal letter you have received from us, and I would therefore like to take this opportunity to remind you of the purpose of 'Gold for Cash'. Our company offers customers the opportunity to sell their gold ('gold' here relating only to the precious metal) for its cash value. Therefore, we are in the market for genuine gold products, e.g. jewellery, coins, etc.

We hope that this explains the purpose of our company. Please ensure that any future items posted to our address are of the actual precious metal variety.

Yours sincerely,

Miss N. Walker

(Customer Service Representative)

The first week of May offered little in the way of enjoyment. I'd been back at school for almost three weeks, which was too long, and the next half-term seemed miles away. My Year 11 students were approaching their final GCSE exams at the end of the month, so my desk looked like it had been hit by a typhoon of unmarked practice essay papers. Usually, my approach to marking was one of mutual blissful ignorance with my students: they produced very little work of very low quality and, in return, I let them off as long as they didn't expect me to mark it. Unfortunately, practice GCSE work was second-marked by other members of the department. That meant it actually had to be done. On the April front, things had been quiet since the Easter holidays, as she'd gone away on holiday with her family. She'd sounded pretty stressed out when I'd called to arrange another meet-up, but I put it down to the hassle of packing. Judging by the state of April's flat, it was a wonder she managed to find anything at all in there, let alone the items needed for a trip away. I hadn't expected the lack of April in my life to affect me but, unable to contact her, I missed her more than I cared to admit. It wasn't any of that _Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder_ bullshit – no, merely a case of wanting what you can't have. I'd always been a sucker for that.

When the first weekend of the month arrived, I found myself stuck in the flat marking on a Saturday morning. I was extra annoyed because it was a Bank Holiday, and most people were outside drinking in the sun. I was extra, extra annoyed when I saw what some members of 11XP had actually written in their rather calamitous attempts to answer a set of past-exam questions on Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_.

_Question 1: Which of the spirits has the biggest effect on Scrooge? Explain your answer using key information from the novella. [40 marks]_

Probly all of them coz all ghosts are well scarey innit.

Kyran Kershaw

_Question 1: Which of the spirits has the biggest effect on Scrooge? Explain your answer using key information from the novella. [40 marks]_

Mayb Sambuca becos my mum always goes reyt mental after a few shots of that. If Scrooge didnt like Sambuca then mayb it was whisky or vodka.

Courtney Weston

It was going to be a long day.

Two hours into my marking marathon, the buzzer rang and I actually felt happy at the prospect of receiving a guest; school-work can do very strange things to you. I stamped a huge, red, capital F across Mason King's page and went to identify my visitor. 'Hello?' I called through the intercom system.

'Simon? Is that you?'

_Oh you have GOT to be kidding me._

'Simey? Hello?' the familiar voice came again.

I felt like placing the receiver back down and pretending not to have heard anything.

'Erm, Simon, I can hear you breathing.'

_Fuck._ 'Emma, hi! It's you.'

'It's meeeeeeee! Surprise! Hurry up and buzz me in, will you? Oh, and I need a hand carrying my luggage up the stairs.'

_Luggage?_

Three coffees later, I realised that Emma had the same knack as April did for talking so constantly that I wasn't sure whether either would realise if I left the room. I'd been sitting pretty much in total silence while she'd filled me in on: Dad's latest attempts at re-plastering the utility room (total dis-_ahhh_-ster, according to Emma); Max's recent developments, including a fascinating, really long list of literally all the new words he had now mastered; and her firm's plans for a Summer Ball in aid of some tedious charity (Emma liked to keep on top of what was going on at work, despite the fact she'd left years ago to have Max). What she hadn't filled me in on, however, was the actual reason she was sitting on my sofa. In my flat. In Sheffield. Drinking coffee like it was in short supply.

'So, Emma, not that I don't love you just arriving at my flat on a Saturday afternoon, unannounced, with what looks like an overnight bag sitting in the hallway…'

'But, you want to know why I'm here?'

'Well, yeah. I mean- it's just- well- you don't visit often. In fact, I think you've only been here once, when I first moved in?'

'Mmmm, and I haven't been invited back since!' she laughed uncomfortably. 'Well, for a start, I thought I better come up here and teach you the meaning of R.S.V.P.'

'Huh?'

'For goodness' sake, Simon, you didn't even have the decency to let me know you weren't coming to Henry's Regatta Gala.'

'Re-what-ta What-ta?' I mimicked.

'Oh, don't play silly beggars with me, Simon. I called you three or four times to invite you to Henry's birthday bash last weekend – I left messages. You never even got back to me. I understand you're very busy with work – honestly, I do. I mean, gracious, I can see I've interrupted you from it today. But couldn't you at least have called to let me know you weren't coming? Mum went mental when she realised you hadn't even sent Henry a card. I mean, Uncle James came all the way over from Europe for goodness' sake!' At the mention of his name, I clenched my fists so tightly I thought I might cut off the blood supply to my fingers. 'So, there I was, defending you again. In the end, I had to pretend you'd phoned _during_ the party just to placate Mum. Can you imagine that? Feeling so desperate you have to _fake_ a phone call?' A silence stretched out between us. Emma sat with arms folded, waiting for an apology. I refused to comply. How was it my fault that she'd married a massive twat and now held the most pretentious parties ever that nobody with any sense wanted to attend? And how was it my fault that she'd invited Uncle James? In fairness, Emma didn't know of my hatred for him, but still. I stared at her, unaffected. She cracked first, as I knew she would. 'Anyway,' she continued, 'I brought your party favour; I had one made for you just in case you did decide to come. And there's one in there for your guest as well; I'd thought you might bring someone. That elusive housemate of yours, perhaps? As I say, I wasn't sure of your plans.' For the first time in a while, I felt a pinprick of guilt as she handed me two very small, white, cotton bags patterned with blue anchors. One bag had been hand-embroidered with

SIMON

in gold thread, whilst the other bore

SIMON'S GUEST

_Bugger. Maybe I actually should have R.S.V. with the truth: that I would rather dip my testicles in lighter fluid and play 'Flick the Lit Match' than attend her 'soiree'._ I pulled at the drawstring handles on one of the cotton bags and withdrew a package wrapped in bubble wrap. Inside was a beige mug decorated with a cartoon picture of a brown rowing boat and the message:

Life is oar-some!

'Wow, these are great!' I lied. 'I bet Henry thought these were jolly good fun.' When I looked up, I noticed Emma's eyes shining with tears. _Fucking hell, they're only mugs; what kind of reaction does she want from me?_ 'No, I mean – they really are fantastic, Em. Bloody brilliant! In fact, I think I'll have another coffee right now just so that I can use mine. Do you want another?' Behind me, I heard her tears begin to stutter out like machine-gun shots. _What the hell is with all the crying women turning up at my door recently?_

'I'm- I'm so sorry, Simon,' she sniffled. 'I honestly didn't mean to turn up and just break down on you like this.'

'I don't mind.' _Oh yes I fucking do._

'I suppose I should probably explain.'

_Must you?_

'It's just- well- I- erm- Things at home aren't going so- Oh, Simey.' She placed her head in her hands and began full on blubbering into them. Wet, gulping sobs: the worst kind. I mean, no-one looks attractive when they cry, but this kind made her look repulsive. Her eyes crumpled in on themselves and her mouth gawped open, guzzling noisy mouthfuls of air between wails. Her shoulders were shaking. She stayed like that for a long time. I suppose any normal person would've felt inclined to hug her, to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be ok. It's not that I didn't _know_ the expected etiquette of such a situation; I simply didn't wish to conform to social niceties. Why would I want her rubbing her snotty face on the shoulder on my favourite hoodie? I'd only just washed it.

Eventually, she calmed herself down and moved from the sofa to the kitchen table. The upside to having a ridiculously small flat is that one main room can be so multi-functional, providing a kitchen, dining room and lounge all in one. Emma pulled out a chair and I noticed that she'd moved to silent crying now, salty rivulets leaking from her eyes. At least that kind made her look a little less ridiculous. 'As I said, things aren't really going so well at home. Henry and I have been arguing a lot, so he's burying himself in his job, as usual. It's almost as though he'd rather be at work than at home at the moment. I mean, he always has a lot of new accounts to oversee at the beginning of the new tax year but, I don't know, his hours are just getting longer and longer. I thought it would get better as he moved up through the firm, not worse. I don't want to be one of those wives who's always nagging at him but even when he _is_ at home, it's not as though he's really with us – Max and I. He's so snappy. So irritable. You know he even had the nerve to shout at me after the party his mum and I threw for him? He didn't shout at his mum; oh no, God forbid he should upset Mummy dearest. He thanked her and left all of his real feelings for me. Apparently, all the nautical props we bought weren't _rowing-related_. Apparently, they were more associated with _sailing_. Apparently, his Oxford friends had a right good laugh about it – all at his expense.' She was staring out of the window now but her eyes had glazed over. I couldn't figure out whether she was even speaking to me, or more speaking to herself out loud. 'I guess I'd hoped this little one,' she stopped to look down and rub her rounded stomach, 'well, that he or she might bring us back together again. It's probably just my hormones. I mean, I remember feeling like this when I was pregnant with Max. You know, I thought Henry was vacant, Henry wasn't prepared, Henry wasn't reading enough baby books – I'm sure it was all in my head. Just like it probably is now! He is a great man - an intellectual. And he loves me…I know he does. It's just, recently, I almost feel as though I'm a single parent. Max is always in bed by the time Henry gets home from work. And you know what the most worrying thing is? He doesn't even seem to care. As long as he can come in, drink his Cognac and read _The Financial Times_, he's happy. And, I mean, he won't even _discuss_ the idea of me going back to work after this one's born. Apparently, _a mother's place is at home with her children_. God, don't get me wrong, I love Max to pieces but I miss working, you know?'

_Am I supposed to answer that? She appears to be handling the rest of the conversation entirely by herself… _ Thankfully, she moved on before I had time to decide.

'I'm so sorry – I shouldn't be boring you with all this. These silly hormones are sending me round the bend!' She faked a laugh with pitiful results. 'But, since I'm already here and everything, I thought maybe I could, well, maybe I could stay here tonight? I'll be out of your hair in the morning, promise. I just thought that a night alone looking after Max could be the wake-up call Henry needs. Maybe then he'll realise what I'm stuck doing all day every day while he's out at work.' She stopped and looked up at me through her soggy eyes: those bright, cobalt eyes - so clearly from our father.

The silence in the room crossed its arms, tapping its foot: the silence that signified Emma's need for me to approve her overnight request. I didn't want her to stay, but she'd made it bloody difficult for me to say no. Unfortunately, I chose to say nothing for so long that my pause was taken as acquiescence. 'Thanks, Simey. You're the best. I'll just nip for a quick shower, then maybe you and I can watch a film or something?'

Whilst Emma was in the bathroom, I tried to return to my marking but couldn't concentrate. It was obvious why she hadn't retreated to Mum and Dad's for her neurotic episode: she didn't want to shatter their illusion. Emry's perfect little life of marital bliss wasn't so blissful after all. That'd be pretty big news, especially for Mum. God forbid the golden child should falter, or that our family's connection to money might be snatched away. As for me, I _could_ have felt a little smug. I _could_ have almost taken pleasure in seeing the cracks form in my sister's perfect façade. I _could_ have almost smiled at the thought that her life might disintegrate in front of her privileged eyes; that Mum and Dad might finally look at her with the regretful disappointment they looked at me. But I didn't think about those things. That was too selfish, even for me.

Ninety minutes later, I was halfway through a soppy, made-for-TV film on a channel I had never felt the desire to access before (and never would again). Emma had wept solidly for about thirty minutes and had made her way through the only toilet roll in the flat. Fearing the reaction I'd garner from suggesting I left her alone to go out and buy more, I texted Jay.

**Sat 4 May** 17:28

Where are you?

West Street

With beers

Come down

I can't. Emma's here – crying. Eurgh.

Her and Henry the Mega Twat had a fight.

Can you pick up some bog roll on your way back?

Emma? Henry?

My sister. Her Oxford husband. They've had a big fight.

Can you get some toilet roll or not?

Your FIT SISTER is in MY flat?!

I know what she needs to make her feel better

Direct her to my room - tell her to start without me

I'm on my way

You're sick.

Get the bog roll.

The woman on screen was about to be reunited with the son she hadn't seen for fifteen years when Emma finally realised she was out of material to mop up her unending Tsunami of tears. She looked helplessly towards me, holding the empty tube in her hand. 'There are some tissues in my room – by my bed,' I said, nodding her in the general direction. _Is it weird to direct my sister to those tissues? I mean, it's not like they've been used already or anything, but I think we all know why guys keep tissues next to their beds. I certainly don't want to be seeing my sister's face when I'm next reaching for them…_ A crashing sound resonated across the hallway and snapped me back to reality.

'Oh God, Simon – I am so sorry!' Emma shouted from behind the door. I stood up, welcoming any excuse to leave behind what would, from that day on, be known as the worst film I'd ever seen. In the hallway, Emma was standing amongst splinters of broken pottery. And piles and piles of hand-written notes on scraggy slips of paper. 'I'm so sorry, Simey. I've gone and bloody broken your lovely piggybank. I knocked into your dresser and it fell out into the hall. Dear me, I'm so clumsy. If only it had dropped onto the carpet in your room instead…' she was crouching down now, bending with difficulty over her bowling-ball stomach, preparing to clear up the mess she had made.

'Stop!' I shouted, louder than I'd intended to. She was holding one of the slips of paper in her hand. She glanced up at me, eyes red and bewildered. 'I'll get this,' I said, lowering the volume of my voice and trying to disguise my urgent tone. 'You go and sit down, Em.'

'No, no - honestly, it's the least I can do. And, of course, I'll need to buy you a new piggyba-' It was too late. She was reading the little telltale note that lay so innocently in her palm.

'What's this?' She read the note again. 'What on Earth are all these, Simey?' She was picking them up – picking up my private thoughts and holding them in her fingers. She began reeling through them aloud.

Con: Noreen's rancid coffee breath.

Con: Forgetting you have a paper-cut and then squeezing a lemon.

Con: After-school meetings that run past 4.

Con: Escaped loonies in the chip shop.

Con: Parents who refuse to take their whiny babies out of coffee shops.

She was almost laughing, eyes darting from piece to piece. 'Seriously, what's this all about?'

I said nothing.

Her intrusive voyage continued.

Con: Two-day hangovers.

Con: Old people walking slowly.

Con: The stupid, deserting café bitch who cost me £6.40.

Con: Unruly pubes.

She laughed for real this time, smiling up at me as though I was making some kind of weird joke she didn't understand. But her cheeriness evaporated into thin air when the next piece of paper unfurled itself. It was scribbled on the back of a Sainsbury's receipt. She looked at it for a few seconds before reading it out.

Con: Feigning enthusiasm for Emma's pregnancy. Again. As if it wasn't hard enough the first time!

For a moment, everything was still. She stared at the receipt, roving over my written words again and again, digesting it slowly. Next, she was on her feet, waving the piece of paper in my face and shouting things I was sure I didn't want to hear. I zoned her out entirely (a skill I'd developed over time), and watched as she stalked around the flat, picking up her belongings piece by piece and throwing them into her Luis Vuitton holdall. Her hands kept flailing in the air as she yelled. Although it wasn't exactly something I'd intended for an audience to see, I was surprised by her over-reaction. Perhaps this was the reason Henry spent so much time at work; if I had to come home to this every night, I'd probably sleep under my bloody desk. She was heading for the exit by this point, pointing at me and screeching at a pitch I hadn't heard before. I caught the words 'why I bother' and 'really done it this time' but the rest was barely comprehensible. Swinging the door open, holdall tucked under her arm, she came face to face with Jay. He was propped up against the wall outside, trying to catch his breath.

'Emma, I assume?' he panted, mustering a wink. 'Woah, what's that you're hiding under there?'

'Excuse me?'

'That rather large bulge under your jumper! I know, I know - I'm one to talk, eh?' He gestured towards his own rather large bulge and chuckled. 'Seriously, mate, you know I'd never have joked about shagging your sister if I'd known she was carrying cargo.'

Emma turned to face me at a frighteningly low speed. Her voice came, low and quiet now. You know you're in trouble when a woman turns slowly and lowers her voice. 'You didn't even tell him I was pregnant? Your own _housemate_, who you see EVERY DAY, doesn't even know that I'm PREGNANT? You really don't give a SHIT – do you, Simon? God only knows why I'm surprised! You never visit, you never call, you NEVER ask how anyone else is doing because all you care about is yourSELF! All this time - ALL this BLOODY TIME I've spent trying to convince Mum that you're NOT a lost cause, trying to convince Dad that the only reason you distance yourself from us is because you find it HARD to show your FEELINGS – and all along, I should've realised – you don't have any feelings! You're just a SELFISH PRICK!' She turned to glower at Jay; I hoped maybe it was his turn to go under the grill. 'And I suppose YOU don't know anything about Max either? My SON – HIS nephew?' She was pointing at me again but shouting at Jay this time. 'WELL?'

'Erm, no ma'am.' Jay sensed immediately that he'd poured petrol on the fire and tried to retract his words. 'I mean, no, of course – he's definitely mentioned him once or twice… Yeah, Max. Little Maxy. He loves that little guy.' She was breathing so hard I thought she might take off. Jay continued: 'It's just- we don't- I mean- that's not the kind of stuff me and him talk about.' He was trying to save me, which was more than I'd tried to do. She didn't say another word after that. Jay and I stood still at the top of the stairs as the sound of her shoes clunked down the metal steps. The door slammed shut. We stood quietly for a moment, until Jay started grinning.

'What are you bloody smiling about?'

'Wow. I never could resist a fiery woman.'

I'd love to say that Emma's outburst really made me take a long hard look at myself. Made me put Simon under the microscope. Made me realise that I needed to appreciate my family and bla bla bla - whatever else a Jeremy-Kyle-style-counsellor would say. Well, it didn't. What it did, was add to my ever-growing cons list:

Con: Family members who are privy to my home address.

…and send me into town on a busy Bank Holiday Sunday.

Con: £12 for a replacement piggybank.

After such an eventful Saturday, Jay and I spent most of Sunday drinking heavily and playing computer games (for a change). My subsequent hangover prevented me from concentrating on school-work when it came to Bank Holiday Monday, so I neglected planning the next day's lessons and chose to sleep instead. Thus, on Tuesday morning, I had to resort to every teacher's fallback plan: tests. Tests are great in many ways: no planning required; seeing the fear in children's eyes when they enter the room and you make the announcement; and enjoying 60 minutes of total silence while the little morons scribble away. Unfortunately, every test comes with a massive downside: marking. Thirty kids writing non-stop for 60 minutes creates a lot of marking. And if you call it a 'test', your Head of Department will check to see that the work produced has been properly assessed. So, I spent Wednesday and Thursday paying the inevitable price for my enjoyable start to the week.

By Friday morning, I was ready to give the classes back their grades: 11XP (Excessive Pricks) were up first. 'So, in front of you on your desk, you will find the results of your most recent mock exam. I'll give you a heads-up: it is _not_ good news. Especially considering that we are now thirteen days from the real exam itself. Remember, in this class most of you probably have the predicted grade of D; therefore, you are hoping to see a D or higher on your paper. I'll give you another heads-up: that is _not_ what most of you will find.' I gave them a few minutes to locate and absorb their abysmal grades before even attempting to move on with the lesson. In the meantime, Charlie Weston's hand ambled into the air.

'Sir, I'm reyt confused.'

_That makes a change._ 'What seems to be the problem, Charlie?'

'I got an F.'

'Yes, indeed you did.'

'So…is that good then?' he asked. The poor dimwit actually seemed to be genuine.

_What do you think, Charlie, since F stands for FAIL? Since F stands for absolute FIASCO? Since F stands for you really FUCKED that up, didn't you, you little cretin?_ 'Well, that depends.' I lied. 'What's your predicted grade?'

'My what?'

'Your predicted grade: the grade you're supposed to try and aim for in your English GCSE.'

'Oh. Erm…' he looked in the front of his book, where I'd told the class to write such information at the start of the year. It was their responsibility to know them, not mine. 'It's a D, sir.'

'Well, then there's your answer.'

'Yesssss! Get in!' he shouted, punching one fist in the air. I stared at him for a moment, confused by his celebration. _Does this kid actually want to fail?_ 'I'm above my target…aren't I?' I watched as the cogs in his head began to whir and his face fell into puzzlement. 'Wait a minute. Sir, does F come before or after D in the alphabet?'

And people say teachers have it easy.

My life had been April-less for almost a month and I was beginning to notice the side effects of being forced into detox. She'd been vague concerning the details of her holiday but I felt safe to assume that she had returned after nearly four weeks. Opting not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't been in touch with me since getting back, I headed to Heart &amp; Sole after school on Friday; due to my boring 48 hours of marking, Jay and I missed our usual Thursday slot. Having tried all the chip shops in our local area, I had to admit that April was right: Heart &amp; Sole genuinely did supply the best in the city. That made for an excellent excuse.

When I entered, the familiar portly lady was serving behind the counter, whilst a bearded man attended the fryer. She greeted me with a friendly smile but not necessarily one of recognition. 'What are you havin', duck?'

'Two large fish and chips. Salt and vinegar on both. One without peas. One large curry sauce. One large battered sausage. And six chicken nuggets.'

'Any drinks w' that?'

'No, thanks. Erm, I was just wondering…is April in?'

'£16.45 please, love. Yeah, she's upstairs. Did you want me to call her down?'

'Oh, no. Don't worry about that – I need to get this stuff home anyway.' I handed over a twenty-pound note. 'Did she have a nice holiday by the way?'

'Sorry?'

'April – she's been away with her family. Do you know whether she had a good time?' I repeated.

The woman looked confused and shook her head. 'I don't know what yer talkin' about, duck.'

'Oh, sorry. I thought you'd know – with her living upstairs and everything. She's been away, abroad, with her mum, her dad and her sister, Hannah. I've been meaning to track her down to ask her about it. She didn't mention exactly where they were going.'

'Well, considering the fact that _I'm_ her mum,' she nodded over to the bearded man, 'and _that's_ her dad, I think _we_ would know if she'd been on a family holiday. I'm afraid the only time off we get in this job is Christmas bleedin' day! Enjoy your dinner, love. Next please?'

My anger demanded attention. Not only had April outright lied to me, but now I'd embarrassed myself in front of her mum and dad. Why hadn't April introduced the chubby woman downstairs as being her mum? She'd been working downstairs while I'd been there enough bloody times! In fact, why hadn't the woman introduced herself as April's mum when I'd gone round for dinner? Maybe she was just as nutty as April; it couldn't be genetic, what with April being adopted, but perhaps something about the way she'd been raised? On the drive home, I tried to calm myself down; I wouldn't give the green-hair- no, the yellow-haired bitch the satisfaction of unsettling me again. I should have known she couldn't be trusted when she walked out of that coffee shop without paying. Well, at least now I knew she was a liar, I was better off without her.

I blamed April's mysterious behaviour for the fact that I couldn't get to sleep that night, although it could have been the mountain of deep-fried food trying to squidge its way through my system. I couldn't stop running through all the reasons why she might lie to me about going away. Potential reason number one: she'd had a boyfriend all along, and he'd whisked away for a romantic break. Potential reason number two: she couldn't stand to spend any more time with me and had therefore faked a trip in order to sever our contact. Potential reason number three: she was a pathological liar who lived in a fantasy world. None of the reasons were particularly pleasing, so it was hard to decide which one I thought most likely to be the answer. By 2am, I gave up hope of sleeping, dressed and walked determinedly towards Heart &amp; Sole. Whatever was hiding behind her lies, I needed to know. If only to stop this neuroticism she seemed to have induced.

When I arrived, the lights on the ground floor were off and the door was locked. However, there were lights on in April's living room and I could see the luminous flickering of the T.V. against the multi-coloured walls. I stared up at her window impotently. I didn't want to call the business line, just in case the calls diverted to her parents' house whenever the chip shop was closed. _April, you daft hippy, this is why you need a bloody mobile phone._ I'd never attempted the old-fashioned method of throwing stones at a window before, but it seemed like my best option. I gathered together a handful of small pebbles – well, pieces of grit to be more accurate; she'd wound me up but I didn't want to shatter the thing. Gently, I began flinging the grit up in the direction of the living room. It was barely making a sound against the glass but April's silhouette was up and looking out of the window in an instant. Considering it was the middle of the night, she was surprisingly alert. I waved at her from the pavement and pointed towards the front door. I couldn't see her face but she ran from sight and quickly appeared downstairs, turning on the lights as she went. I was used to being taken aback by April's outfits, but this one was particularly unusual. Despite the fact that it was 2:30am, she was wearing a silver, sequin-covered dress with bright green tights and high heels. Around her neck lay a pair of big, white headphones.

'Simon!' She opened the door, screamed and jumped on me, kissing the area around my mouth keenly. She was out of breath and I tried not to think what, or whom, I might have interrupted her from.

I pushed her away, holding her at arms' length, resisting. 'April, what are you playing at?'

'What d'yer mean? I'm happy to see you, obviously!' she beamed. 'Simon, what's wrong?'

'Did you have a good time?' _She's got a boyfriend. It all adds up._

'What?'

'I said, did you have a good time?' _That'll be why she's all dressed up now: she's just got back from a night out with him. Maybe she did double-book me that first night we had dinner after all. Maybe he got the first sitting._

'Simon, I honestly don't know what yer talkin' about! Can we go upstairs now? It's cold down 'ere. Mum always turns the heatin' off in summer, whether it's actually warm enough or not! No bother though – I'm sure we can think of something to do to warm ourselves up…' She turned to move upstairs but I stopped her. _Stay strong, Simon. Stay strong._

'Last time I called you, you told me not to call again until you got back from your family holiday. You said you'd call me when you landed. In fact, you told me you'd call me on the flight home, which I remember because I had to remind you that a) you can't use your phone on a plane and b) you don't own a mobile. So, I'll ask you again: did you, or did you not have a good time?'

'Oh – erm, yeah! My family holiday! Yeah, it was great! Mmm, really good fun.' She was a terrible liar. 'So, are you comin' in or what? I'm bloody freezin'!' I knew what was happening. I knew it, but I needed to hear it from her. So, I followed her upstairs.

'Aren't yer happy to see me?' she started wittering as we climbed the junk-ridden staircase. It was even messier than the last time I'd visited: empty pizza boxes and plastic bottles crunched under foot. 'Even if you are being mardy, I sure am happy to see you. I was thinkin' about you the other day, actually. I saw this documentary about giraffes and it made me think about how I told you all about Shorty on the Rooftop Day. That was a really good day.' As we reached the living room, I noticed that all the furniture had been pushed back against the walls. In the centre of the room, spread out across the carpet, April had placed the purple throw that usually lived on the sofa. On the T.V., a music channel projected out images of celebrities prancing around on beaches wearing tiny bikinis but the sound had been muted. 'I bet you're wondering what I'm doin' in here?' she asked, smiling inanely. She grabbed the white headphones from around her neck and held them in the air. 'SILENT DISCO!'

I stared at her for a moment. Was it intentional, the way she managed to change the subject so ridiculously, that I always forgot why I'd come in the first place? Still, I had to ask. I couldn't stop myself. 'Silent disco?'

'Yeah!' she grinned. 'I've seen them on T.V., yer know, like at festivals and that, but I've never been to one. Never! So, tonight, I thought: why not? Ok, what you do is you put some music on, but you're not allowed to have the volume on at all, obviously, because it's a _silent_ disco. Now, when I've seen them on T.V., the people are always wearin' headphones. I'm not sure exactly what the headphones are for, but I'm guessin' it's to make it even more silent? I don't know. Anyway, so you put your silent music on, and then you put your headphones on, and then you clear a dance-space,' she gestured to the purple throw on the floor, 'and dance! It's great fun, honestly. Do you want me to grab yer some headphones, so you can join in?'

My thoughts ran riot. _What is actually, seriously wrong with this girl? Perhaps she doesn't have a boyfriend after all; would anyone be crazy enough to go out with her? If she doesn't have a boyfriend, why did she lie about her holiday? And should I tell her she's totally got the wrong end of the stick when it comes to what a silent disco actually is?_ In the end, I decided not to question her or even to correct her. I simply accepted the headphones and danced, like a total plonker, to imaginary music. Since I wasn't going to be around much longer, did it really matter if she _did_ have a boyfriend? As long as we used condoms, I figured I was safe.

The next morning, I woke up in April's bed. Her bedroom was more feminine than the rest of her flat, adorned with pink pillows, cuddly toys from her childhood and a patchwork quilt that her mum had hand-stitched. On her bedside table stood a green lamp with tassels dangling from the shade and a pile of books ranging from the usual trashy chick-lit, to historical non-fiction and fact books about animals. On my side of the room was a chest of drawers that housed several candles and her expansive jewellery collection. I could hear April snoring lightly from underneath the duvet. Not wanting to be the kind of sap who sits there watching a girl sleep, I prodded her shoulder until she opened her mossy green eyes. 'Hmmmm. What time is it?' she murmured.

I rolled over to look at my phone, only to see the voicemail icon flashing. 'Eurgh.'

'What's wrong?'

'Oh, nothing - just a voicemail from my sister.' April moved slowly from the bed, fumbled around on the floor for a vaguely dry towel and headed for the shower, while I braced myself for another onslaught of hormone-induced slander. I dialled for voicemail.

'Simon? It's Emma. I tried the house phone but it's still broken. It really is about time you had that fixed. Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't called until now, but I've been playing last weekend over and over in my head and I feel dreadful about the way we left things. I suppose I can be a bit of pain sometimes, always going on about baby showers and bottles; perhaps I forget how boring all that stuff is for people who don't yet have families of their own. So, I wanted to apologise – for that, and for screaming at your poor housemate – the big fellow. Gracious, he must think I'm such a dragon. Will you please tell him how sorry I am? Also, I wanted to talk to you about those little notes you had stored in that moneybox, which I still owe you for, by the way. I, erm, well I don't really understand what all those little complaints you'd written down were about and I probably should have asked before I- well, before I shouted at you. So, call me. Please. I'm worried about you.' As Emma's message ended, April appeared in the doorway with white, bubbled suds still covering her hair and body. A look of concern owned her face.

'Come back for more already?' I asked in my best seductive voice, peeling the duvet back and motioning for her to join me.

'No, actually,' she began. 'I was just thinking about all that stuff with yer sister. Like, those things you said up on that rooftop at the Arts' Tower. I don't want to push the subject, honestly – I just can't help but wonder why you seem to hate yer family so much, Simon.'

'And you had to race out of the shower, mid-wash, just to ask me that?' I teased.

'Well, some things are just more important than hygiene.' She sat down on the end of the bed, far enough away from me to send clear I'm-not-here-for-funny-business;-I'm-here-for-a-serious-talk signals. Water hurried down her torso in streams and bled into the bed-sheets. She was clearly intent on staying there until I produced a sufficient answer. Even Jay had never asked for an explanation regarding my detachment from my family and it annoyed me that April felt herself worthy of demanding such a thing. However, since she embodied the closest thing I had to a normal relationship, and had admittedly proven to be non-judgemental in the past, maybe it was time to actually talk about what happened.

'It was a long time ago – back in 2000. The 4th of May. Something happened and, well, I suppose things haven't been the same since. It's hard to believe it was that long ago because I can still remember it so, so clearly. I was in my final year of high school, revising hard for my GCSEs, you know, so that maybe I could try to live up to the ridiculously high standards Emma had set with her results. Anyway, I'd probably been pushing myself a bit hard, staying up until all hours to cram in as much information as possible. I was sitting in a History lesson that morning, re-visiting the key aspects of the Nazi-Soviet pact, when I started to feel all queasy. My teacher sent me to see the school nurse, who agreed that I could go home, but she couldn't get hold of my mum. Mum was supposed to be at home that day. She used to volunteer at the local Oxfam shop two or three days a week, what with Dad earning a small fortune, but that was supposed to be one of her days off. After an hour of Mum's phone going straight to voicemail, the school got through to my dad who left work to come and pick me up. Our house was in a little village a couple of miles from the school, so the drive didn't take long. Since he needed to get back to work, Dad just dropped me off outside our house for me to let myself in. Mum's car was missing but the front door was unlocked. It turned out she hid her car in the garage on such special occasions, to avoid neighbours dropping in unannounced. So, I opened the front door and-' I paused, unsure whether I wanted to continue. April offered me a drink, which I accepted. She tottered off to the kitchen, wrapping her humungous blue dressing gown around her damp, soapy body. When she returned, she carried a cup of hot coffee in one hand and a bottle of 10-year-old whisky in the other.

'I didn't know which kinda drink yer'd want,' she said, looking a little embarrassed at her selection. I agreed that the offerings were perfect and mixed the two together in the elephant mug I drank from whenever I visited. April had bought the mug from a charity shop because she loved the way the elephant's trunk curled around to form its handle. According to the rulebook of April Barnes, crockery shouldn't match; as such, her kitchen cupboards boasted a large selection of colourful (and somewhat questionable) bric-a-brac. 'So, you were sayin'?' April prompted me gently. With a little Dutch courage warming its way down my throat, I resumed.

'Yeah, so, I let myself into the house and went through the hallway into the kitchen. Mum and Dad's house is stupidly huge – this old-fashioned country cottage with red brick walls on the inside and wooden beams everywhere. Anyway, I was about to pour myself a glass of water and head straight to bed when I heard noises coming from upstairs. It was like a muffled banging sound and I thought I could hear someone in pain. I grabbed a kitchen knife from the drawer – I'm not entirely sure what I thought I was going to do with it – and started creeping up the stairs. By the time I reached the top step, it was clear that the sounds were coming from Mum and Dad's bedroom. I remember thinking it was strange that I didn't even feel sick anymore; I guess that kind of adrenaline pumping around your body makes you forget about anything else. I stood at the door for a moment, listening to the scuffling noises and gripping the handle of the knife. If I could go back in time, I honestly don't know whether I'd still walk through that door. Given another chance, maybe I'd just go back downstairs, get my glass of water and head to bed. Maybe then things would've been different.'

'So, yer went in? What was inside?' April asked, literally sitting on the edge of her seat on the bed. My story-telling skills were obviously improving, although this, unfortunately, wasn't fiction.

'Well,' I continued, 'I pushed the door open quietly and stood at the entrance to their room. On the bed - on my _dad's_ bed - were Mum and Uncle James. Uncle James is Dad's brother – younger by a few years. They didn't even see me at first. It wasn't like I was watching them – I mean, Christ, can you think of anything you'd want to see less than _that_? – but it felt as though I'd been paralysed. I wanted to shout at them to stop but I was made of stone. Couldn't move. Couldn't speak. I remember squinting, literally hoping that that the man before me, the man atop her, was actually my dad and that my feeling sick had somehow messed with my vision. It was Mum who saw me first. She screamed bloody murder and started grappling at the sheets, attempting to cover what was left of her modesty. Uncle James launched himself off the bed and grabbed for his boxers so quickly that he put them on the wrong way round. Mum just sat there wrapped in sheets. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Uncle James moved towards me. He was pretty fucking serious for a man parading round in his pants with an erection. I can still hear him now: 'Put the knife down, Simon. Just put the knife down and everything will be ok.' I'd forgotten I was even holding the thing. He kept saying it over and over again, advancing on me like a predator: slowly, quietly, low down to the ground. 'That's it mate. Just hand over the knife and we can talk about this.' He reached his right hand out, fingers stretching for mine. As he went to prise the knife from my hand, my arm jolted outwards – not towards him, you know, on purpose – I think I just wanted him not to touch me. I didn't mean to hurt him. Genuinely, April, I didn't.'

'What happened to him?' April's face had drained of all colour.

'It sliced his hand up pretty badly. One big slit running along the bottom of all four fingers. Apparently, the Doctor said he nearly lost two fingers altogether. I wish he had; that's the least the dickhead deserved, if you ask me. I want to be more than just a scar.'

'Christ. What did yer mum do?'

'After she stopped screaming, she told me to stay in the house and start cleaning the carpet while she drove him to A&amp;E. She wrapped his hand up in a towel and gave me a big bottle of bleach. She told me to wash everything and to get myself in the shower as soon as I'd got all that I could out of the carpet. And she said she'd be back as quickly as she could. The next few hours are a blur. I remember scrubbing at the cream carpet of their bedroom, watching the soapy bubbles turn pink as they mixed with his blood. I sat there rubbing bleach back and forth on my hands and knees until my skin scorched and my eyes started to burn. I had to run to the bathroom to be sick. By the time she arrived home, I was sitting with my arms around my knees on the floor of their en-suite shower. I'm not sure how long I'd been there.'

April's breath came cautiously. She nodded for me to continue. 'I'd turned the water hotter than my skin could handle. Mum stood in the bathroom for a while, just looking at me through the steam in the room. After a while, she turned off the water and threw me a towel. She told me to get up and get myself to my room before Dad got home. She asked me what the hell I thought I was doing spying on her like that. She said that what happened between her and James was none of my business and that she would go and clean up the rest of the mess I'd made before I managed to upset anyone else.'

'Did y' tell yer dad? Or Emma?'

'No. Emma was away enjoying her first year of Uni and we barely saw her. She was too busy being a first class student: President of the Conservation Society, the Environmental Society, the Debate Club – she had enough on her plate.'

'And yer dad?'

'I wanted to tell him; I wanted to tell him every fucking day. Mum told me it would destroy him. Asked me whether I was ready to face the consequences of telling him – to watch my parents split up and have to sell the house, all the while knowing that it was 'my fault'. She told me I was lucky Uncle James wasn't pressing charges for assault and that maybe he'd change his mind if I went and ratted them out to Dad.'

'Christ, Simon. I can't believe she actually said that. How old were yer?'

'Fifteen; I suppose that's why I listened. If I'd been a bit older, I guess I would've understood that it was her fault, not mine. But I was young and I didn't have anyone to talk to.'

'What about friends? People from school?'

'I've never found it that easy to make friends; I don't know why. There definitely wasn't anybody I felt close enough to at school, so I just kept it to myself. I had exams coming up at that time too; I locked myself in my room for every hour that I wasn't out at school and just focused on revision. I barely spoke to anyone for months. I ate in my room, watched T.V. in my room, and just generally shunned all contact with her and Dad. I felt so awkward around him, knowing what I knew; it was easier to just be invisible.'

'Didn't he wonder what was goin' on?'

'I heard him asking Mum a few times. She blamed it on me being a teenager: mood swings, hormones, the amount of school-work I had to do – basically anything to avoid actually telling him the truth. The longer it went on, the easier it became to just lock myself away. As I said, Emma had always been the favourite child – this way, I was just making it easier for her to retain her crown. Dad came to talk to me a few times, tried to ask me what was going on, but I shut him out. After a while, I guess he gave up trying. I lived in their house, but I was more like a piece of the furniture than a part of the family. I knew all I needed to do was make it to the time when University applications came around; then, I could get out of there forever. I've barely been back since. I get on with my life and let them get on with theirs.'

'But what about Emma? She didn't do anythin' wrong?'

'I guess. But it was hard enough as it was before, you know, growing up around someone your parents have placed on a pedestal. There was never any room for me up there. After the thing with Mum and Uncle James...I don't know. The distance between Emma and I just seemed insurmountable. I suppose I wished it had been her who'd walked in on them instead of me. Her who would destroy the perfect family if she told. Her who Mum would look at with regret from that day forward. But, instead, that privilege was left to me.'

April nodded slowly, letting my candid words sink in. 'Simon, I totally, _totally_ get it if you don't wanna answer this but…what happened to James?'

'He didn't really visit after that. Him and Dad had never been particularly close, so it wasn't like it was a big change. He only lived about half an hour away all through mine and Emma's childhood, but Dad only saw him a couple of times a year. He was this big, snazzy business guy – bit of an entrepreneur – always busy with work stuff. I guess he arranged his visits to our house around Dad's working hours – and school hours, obviously. He moved abroad not long after our little altercation, and he never regained full use of his right hand. Once he was settled in Portugal, he ended up founding some company that make hand-held products specifically designed for people with mobility issues from nerve damage. Typical fucking James: even managed to turn that situation to his advantage. I haven't really seen him since that day. He came over one Christmas, about a year or so after everything happened, but even the sound of his voice from downstairs made me want to vomit, telling Mum she looked beautiful - right in front of Dad! Can you believe it? I didn't know what else to do other than refuse to leave my bedroom. Well, it was either that or risk stabbing him for real. Dad brought my Christmas dinner up to me on a tray. He wasn't even angry; it was as though he pitied me. That was the worst part – _he_ pitied _me_, when really it should have been the other way around.'

I realised I'd been talking non-stop for what felt like forever. April sat, dumbfounded, perched on the end of the bed. I'd hoped that when I eventually told someone, let out all of the things I'd kept in for so long, that some magical weight would lift off my shoulders and I would feel refreshed, rejuvenated – maybe even happy again. Unfortunately, I felt no such thing. Instead, I just had that sick, bile-rising sensation that I had come to associate with my family. April must have sensed that I didn't want to talk any more. She suggested that she cancel her Saturday lunchtime shift downstairs and ask her mum, Claire, to send up some fish and chips for us from downstairs. We spent the entire afternoon watching crap T.V. on her sofa – well, she was watching T.V. I was staring blankly at the screen, replaying the events of the 4th May in my head over and over again until the screen turned scarlet and all I could see was Uncle James's blood spilling out across a cream, fluffy carpet.

When I woke in April's bed the next morning, there was an empty space where her pale-skinned body usually lay. On her pillow was a note:

Couldn't sleep. Operation Bucket List starts…TODAY!

April x

With April absent, and last night's revelations still revolving around inside my mind, I was unable to find the energy to get out of bed. I rolled over and sank back into sleep.

'Wakey wakey sleepy head!' April shouted, re-entering her bedroom about an hour later. She opened the curtains and shook my torso hard until I signalled a response.

'What? I'm fucking sleeping. Leave me alone.'

'Sleeping's for losers!' she taunted, waving something white around in my face.

'What's that?'

'Look. Look closer.' She handed me a cylindrical cardboard cup illustrated with the green Starbucks logo. I squinted back at her, conscious of the sunlight trying to pierce my eyeballs. 'Turn it around, Simon; look on the other side!' she squealed. I turned the cup to see the words

**Anne Teak**

scrawled across the side in fat, black marker pen. I glanced up at April, who was smiling so hard I thought her cheeks might crack. 'Well? I did it! I started my bucket list!' She scrambled over to the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out her list. 'Number two: Use a funny, fake name at Starbucks - tick! Now, let's get going on your bucket list!'

In the end, April suggested that we start my bucket list in order from most feared item to least feared item. Despite my reluctance, I had to admit that her explanation was pretty convincing. The way April saw it, I was working to a much tighter deadline than she was, and I therefore needed to make sure that all the important items were ticked off as soon as possible. If I left difficult items until the end of the year, one of two things would happen. One: I would use those things as an excuse not to go through with my plan. Two: I would die unhappy, having not completed all the things I wanted to achieve before death. So, I agreed. Unfortunately for me, April could also sense that the item I wanted to approach least was the final one:

8\. Tell Dad the truth.

Thus, she insisted that we tackle that one first. I argued that I had actually already technically achieved another of my goals through meeting her:

2\. Make some new friends.

She argued that 'friends', plural, could not be crossed off using her as evidence alone. However, if I made one more new friend, she would allow it. Instead, we both agreed that I could use meeting her to cross off the very first item instead:

1\. Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.

And we crossed it off right there and then. My bucket list challenge was officially underway.

For the first time possibly ever, that week at school flew by and the weekend was looming before I knew it. April had scheduled Saturday 18th as the day we would cross off number 8 on my bucket list. Let's just say that I wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect. April arrived at my flat at 8:30am on Saturday morning; as penance for her shift-cancellation the weekend before, her mum had insisted April would work both the Saturday evening, Sunday lunch and Sunday evening shifts of the following week. April's parents were in pretty much sole control of her shifts, since they allowed her to live in the flat above the chip shop rent-free. For the last few years, she had worked a few shifts a week downstairs and used her wages to pay for food and bills. Her parents were happy to cover her rent, as they were keen for April to live alone and to have her independence. I did mention that she would have full independence if she got a proper, full-time job and moved out of her parents' flat, but the observation wasn't exactly well received. Regardless, April needed to be back in Sheffield to start work at 5:30pm, so we had to get to my mum and dad's country cottage and back within the same day. It was a two-hour drive across the Pennines and we were set to arrive well before lunchtime.

As we belted up and left the car park, I asked April whether she wanted to split the driving. She wasn't insured on my Corsa, but I didn't exactly care if it ended up on a scrap heap somewhere. 'So, we could do an hour each on the way there and an hour each on the way back? Or maybe I could drive there and you drive back?'

'I can't, Simon. I don't know how to drive.'

'Oh, right. I see. Didn't you ever have lessons?'

'Never saw the point, really. Plus, I wasn't very well when I was 17 – yer know, when everyone else started learnin' to drive.' She paused for a moment. I started to realise how frequently April seemed to have been unwell when she was younger. I was wondering how I could approach the subject of asking whether she'd been born with some kind of horrible disease when she flurried on. 'Taking the bus is waaaaaaay better than driving a car anyway. You see the FUNNIEST things on the bus, Simon; yer wouldn't believe it, honestly. So, this one time, I got on t' bus fer work – yer know, when I was at the Wildlife Park, and there was this man wrapped up in a sleepin' bag and he was actually full on, totally, completely asleep! On the bus! He was still lyin' there on the back seat when I got off at my stop. I laughed all the way into work that day. And, another time when I got on – this was on the way home from work I think – there was this guy sittin' near the front and the only free seat on the whole bus was next to him, so I went to sit down next to him and he goes: 'Yer can't sit there, love. Me imaginary friend, Norman, is sitting there.' Can you believe it? I had to stand up for the WHOLE journey! He wasn't even jokin', I swear. He kept patting Norman's legs and tellin' him they were goin' to be home soon.' I'd pretty much zoned out into that vacant, happy place I went to whenever April was telling her weird stories, but she continued regardless. 'And, this other time, a woman – I know, it's usually men who are the weirdos on the bus – but this time it was a woman who was wearin' this posh business suit and everythin'. What she did was she opened her briefcase that she was carryin' and she said, out loud, right into the briefcase: 'Got enough air in there?' She was, like, peerin' inside it and everythin' and then she nodded and closed it again. It was SO scary! What the bloody hell did she have in there? Well, I didn't need to even ask because next, she took out this pineapple and she spo-' April talked about the strange behaviour of fellow bus passengers for twenty more minutes. After that, she talked for fifteen minutes about eagles and then for another half an hour about why it's important to try and appreciate all different types of music (including the band The Eagles – that was the kind of tenuous link that hijacked her lines of thought). She functioned as a sort of conversational tour-guide, whizzing me through various topics, stopping and signposting important pieces of information, such as the fact that the eyesight of most eagles is 3.6 times more accurate than a human with 20/20 vision. Or that her favourite song was _Go Your Own Way_ by Fleetwood Mac because when she was growing up, it made her feel as though it was ok to be different. I thought that title summed up April's personality perfectly.

When we were just over half an hour from our destination, the familiar onset of parental-induced nausea took over. Although I'd barely had chance to participate in the conversations April had been having throughout the journey so far, she still seemed to sense my quietness. As usual, nonetheless, she knew exactly how to take my mind off it. 'Simon, we are now going to play a game!' she announced, clapping her hands together excitedly. 'Right, what happens is that I'm going to ask you four questions and you have to answer each question with just three single words. Ok?'

I wasn't really one for games but I welcomed the distraction. 'Yep, I'm ready.'

'Great start! First, I want you to imagine your favourite animal. It might be a domestic animal or a wild one – it doesn't matter. Do not tell me what the animal is. I want you to describe that animal in three words. I'll give you a moment to think and then you need to give me three, individual words to describe it. Ready? Go!'

_ Ok…an animal I like. Well, I'm not a huge fan of animals but I guess dogs aren't too bad. Although, if I say dogs, that'll probably make me sound really boring. I bet everyone picks a dog. No, I need to pick something unusual. And manly. What's the manliest animal? A dragon. Yes, very macho. Ok, so dragons are: big, scaly, fire-breathing, ferocious, angry, frightening, powerful, dangerous…_

'Moment's up! What are your three words?' April interjected.

'Big, angry and dangerous.'

'Can I use this pen?' She picked a biro off the floor of the car and started giggling as she scribbled my three words down on the back of her hand.

'What's so funny?' I asked.

'I can't tell you yet! Right, next question: I want you to imagine your favourite colour. Again, don't tell me what it is. Exactly as before, I want you to describe that colour in three words. Ready? Go!'

_My favourite colour's blue. Dark blue. It's a pretty miserable colour, hence my appreciation of it. It's quite cold. Depressing. Sad. Lonely, I guess - if colours can be lonely._

'Time's up! Three words please!'

'Lonely, sad and cold.'

'Aww, Simon!'

'What?'

'Nothing. I'll explain in a minute. Question three: picture yourself in a jungle. There are trees everywhere and you can hear animals growling in the distance. You are alone. As you trek through the jungle, you can feel the slippery ground under your feet. Up above, all you can see is the sun in the wide, open sky. Three words to describe how you feel…off you go!

_I'm obviously supposed to feel a bit scared but I won't say that. Are people supposed to find experiences like that exciting? Emma did some sort of jungle shit on her gap year – she came back from that year using words like 'invigorated' and 'seeing the world in a different light'. Fucking spoilt brat._

'Right, what are they?' April asked.

'Erm, I'd rather not answer that one. Can we skip to the next one?'

'Hmmm, very interesting… Very interesting indeed.' April was still noting down everything I said on the back of her hand. 'Ok, Mr Bramwell, it's time for your final question. I want you to picture yourself waking up in a white room. There is nothing in the room – no furniture, no pictures, no sound, no other people – nothing but white. Blank. You can't see any doors or any windows. You don't know how you got there and you can't see how you're going to be able to get out. How do you feel? Three words – fire away!'

I didn't need thinking time for this one. 'Peaceful, calm and free.'

April paused for a moment, assessing my answers before adding them to the list. 'Free? Even though you're trapped in a room all alone?'

'Yeah – if there are no doors and no windows, it means no-one else can get in. So, I'd be free from everyone else. All their hassle.' She lowered her head and sank down into her chair. I waited for her analysis of my answers but she just sat there staring into her lap. _Have I upset her? How? God, women are bloody impossible. _'Anyway, what was all that about?' I urged.

'Ok,' she began quietly. 'Question one about the animal is actually supposed to tell you how you see yourself. You answered: big, angry and dangerous. Ok, you are six-foot-three, but other than that I think you have a rather warped view of yourself!' She was giggling again now. I didn't like people laughing at me.

'Alright, get a move on. What's number two?'

'Oooooh, calm down you _angry, dangerous_ man you! Ok, ok, I'll be serious. Number two, the colour one, is supposed to explain how other people see you. You answered: lonely, sad and cold – bless you! I don't think you're any of those things either, Simon. I think you're pretty ace.' She was grinning over at me. She stuck her fingers in the sides of my mouth and pulled my lips into a smile as wide as hers. 'Look! How could anyone think you were sad? As for number three... The jungle trek question signifies your feelings about sex. You, Mr Bramwell, chose not to answer. Then again, we already knew you were a prude, so can't say I'm surprised!' I opened my mouth to object but reassured myself that she was only joking. I'd shagged her enough times for her to realise I wasn't a prude, even if I wasn't used to girls wandering around naked on a first date. She moved on to the final piece of analysis: 'Finally, I asked how you'd feel in the blank, white room. That one indicates your feelings towards dying.' She stared at the writing on her hand.

'What did I say for that one again?'

Silence.

' April?'

'Peaceful, calm and free,' she answered. Well, at least April's childish game offered me something useful: confirmation that I'd officially made the right plans for New Year's Eve.

We arrived on the outskirts of Mum and Dad's village just after 11am. Situated in the centre, their huge country cottage rested peacefully amongst a patchwork of green and yellow fields. The windy roads were so narrow that two cars couldn't pass each other without one stopping and pulling into the hedge. Opposite their house was the primary school that Emma and I both attended as youngsters. With fewer than 50 children in the entire institution, there were only two classes: the 'Infants' and the 'Juniors'. The Infants ranged from those in Reception to Year 1; Years 2-6 were taught in the Juniors. I pointed the school out to April, but she was engrossed in her own thoughts and didn't seem to be paying much attention.

Mum and Dad bought the cottage for around £80,000 back in the 1980s and had transformed it (via two extensions and a garden re-sculpture) into their dream house. It had four double bedrooms, three bathrooms, an open-plan kitchen, a breakfast room, a dining room, a study and two lounges. One lounge housed comfortable sofas, a huge sheepskin rug and Sky T.V.: this lounge was for 'everyday use'. The other lounge, commonly known as the 'Best Lounge', was a place we were not permitted to enter as children. Inside, pristine white sofas boasted smooth, silk cushions of floral patterns. Every available polished-oak surface presented an array of delicate, crystal ornaments. One of Mum's favourite ornaments featured a man and woman dancing. The man's right hand was raised in the air, holding the woman's hand and twirling her body in a circle off to his side. The figurine was made from glass but coated in a substance so 'precious', according to my mother, that it was not to be handled without wearing special gloves. I thought the whole thing was fucking ludicrous and had almost used my bare hands (Heaven forbid) to throw it against the wall on several occasions. At the very end of the Best Lounge stood an antique writing desk, complete with quills and pot of ink (a present from pretentious Henry, of course). Mum used the desk to write her 'Thank You' letters. No, she had not realised that 'Thank You' letters had become obsolete since the introduction of the internet and the far superior 'e-mail'. All over the walls hung gentle watercolours of muted greens and pieces of rustic artwork from Vietnam, Thailand and India; Emma had brought these back as gifts from her post-university-but-pre-law-school gap year. It was the kind of house where guests were given a tour upon entry, where stilted silence settled for hours at a time and where forgetting to use a coaster was an all-out sin.

April and I pulled up outside and the sharp jolt of the brakes snapped her out of her trance. She surveyed the cottage open-mouthed. 'Simon, you didn't tell me you lived in a fucking mansion!' I steeled myself and smiled at April's profanities. Mum hated foul language; she said it was _evidential of a substandard vocabulary_. It would give me great pleasure for mum to hate April, so I planned to encourage such behaviour once we got inside.

Dad answered the door wearing jeans and a grey jumper with buttons at the neck. He looked tired. He looked confused. But he did not look like the kind of man who was about to learn his entire marriage was a sham. 'Goodness, Simon! What a pleasant surprise! Come in, please, come in. And I see you've brought us a visitor?'

'April,' she said, shaking his hand with too much nervous enthusiasm. 'Your house is bloody massive!' She was already following Dad through into the hallway. I wanted to get back in the car, drive away and never come back. I needed to get this over with. Quickly. Dad led April and I through into the Best Lounge; Mum hadn't made it downstairs in time to tell him that the Best Lounge was for guests only, and I wasn't technically a guest.

Within minutes, the four of us gathered, cups of tea in hands, on the white sofas amidst uneasy tension.

'So, to what do we owe this pleasure?' Mum asked.

'Anne, I think we both know why Simon is here, love,' Dad said.

_I sincerely doubt that._

'Simon,' he continued, 'please don't be angry but Emma called us after she came to visit you. She mentioned that perhaps you're not in a very good place right now. Something about a moneybox? And keeping track of all the things that wind you up? It didn't sound too healthy, son. Why don't you tell us all about it? Tell us what's been going on, and how we can help you to get better.'

_ Fucking Emma! Of course she scuttled off back to Mum and Dad to tell on me. Maybe I should shed a bit of light on her in return – about how she basically had a nervous breakdown in my flat because it turns out that dearest darling Henry's not such a fucking hero after all._

'Robert, this is really more of a _family_ conversation…don't you think?' Mum butted in, eyes focused on April. God forbid a _visitor_ should be subjected to anything other than canapés and polite chit-chat about the weather.

I ignored Mum entirely and focused my eyes on Dad. I wouldn't let her stop me this time. 'No, Dad. Actually, the reason I'm here has nothing to do with that. And my _private_ piggybank has nothing to do with Emma. I'm here because there's something I need to tell you. Something I should've told you a long time ago, but _somebody_ convinced me not to.' Mum's face was taut and I could feel her eyes boring through my skull and out the other side. April squeezed my hand and circled her fingers inside my palm. 'Before I tell you, I just want you to know that I haven't told Emma, or anybody else, and there's nothing for you to be embarrassed about. If anyone should be embarrassed, it's certainly not you.'

'What are you talking about, Simon?' His face contorted with paternal concern.

'Mum-' My breath caught in my throat. _Breathe, Simon. You can do this. He deserves to hear this._ 'Mum had…' I focused all my energy on stopping my voice from shaking, '…an affair. She had an affair. With Uncle James. In fact, for all I know, they could still be having one.' Heavy silence invaded the room. April's fingers stopped circling and lay rigid in my hand. Dad's eyes moved downwards and settled on his slipper-clad feet. His hand came up to his forehead and he pinched the skin at the top of his brow between his thumb and forefinger.

'I'm so sorry I never told you. I found out when I was so young – I didn't know what to do. Mum convinced me that it was best to keep quiet but I- well, I didn't know how to- I should've-' I stopped there, unable to sufficiently articulate my guilt. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. I was beginning to wonder whether I'd actually said the words aloud when he stirred. His gaze lifted from the floor and over to his wife; I wasn't surprised to see that his eyes were dry. Robert Bramwell was a strong man - not the sort of man who would cry in front of his son. The tears would surely come later, when he was alone. He was looking Mum right in the Botoxed face.

_That's it, Dad. You let her fucking have it. What if he hits her? Should I stop him?_

Dad's hand moved over and settled on Mum's left leg, which he squeezed as he said: 'Oh love, why didn't you tell me he knew?'

Mum sighed. 'I suppose I thought it was for the best, Rob. I knew you didn't want to hear about my goings on; as we agreed, I kept all the details to myself.' She looked at me, fresh, new resentment burning in her eyes. 'I thought that if you knew about Simon finding out – well, I thought it might upset you even more. And you know I never intended to hurt you.'

'What the hell are you two talking about?' I barked. 'Dad, what's going on?'

'I'll go and put the kettle on,' Mum said. 'April, perhaps you should come with me? Leave these two to talk?' Mum's questions were rhetorical; she moved over to the door of the lounge and waited for April to follow her command.

'No. I'm staying here. Whatever Rob wants to say to Simon, he can say it in front of me,' she responded, with a kind of confidence few people were ever capable of mustering in the presence of my mother. 'Isn't that right, Simon?'

I nodded. Mum folded her arms; it was clear how deeply April's defiance riled her. 'Robert, darling, this sort of conversation most certainly is for family members only – don't you think?'

'That's funny,' April started, 'because it seems you're a bit confused about exactly where the boundaries lie when it comes to _family members_. Don't YOU think?' Mum glared at April, speechless, and left the room in silence. I'd never been so pleased to have April by my side as I was at that moment.

Dad nodded at us, signalling that he was ready to explain. 'Simon, I know about your mum and Uncle James. I've known for a long time – since a few months after it started, in fact. It's, erm, it's a very complicated situation. When you marry someone, you have to accept that you might not- well, you might not be able to give them everything they need. I had to accept that there came a certain stage in our marriage whereby I wasn't able to give your mum everything _she_ needed. I know it must have come as a shock to you, and I honestly had no idea that you'd ever found out about your mother's other arrangement but-'

'Other _arrangement_? They weren't trading stock market tips, Dad; I walked in on them shagging on your fucking bed!' I shouted, shocked by his tranquil acceptance.

'That's enough, Simon!' His voice was severe now. 'They had an arrangement – a relationship, if you like – and a serious one at that. That relationship continues, on a casual basis, to this day. You see, after Emma was born, your mother and I drifted apart. She felt very isolated stuck at home caring for a baby all alone while I was out at work. Her body had changed; she felt very unattractive. Although she tried to tell me how unhappy she was, I was too God damn ignorant to accept it. All the poor woman needed was some reassurance that-' Mum re-entered the room, carrying a pot of freshly-brewed tea and a distinct lack of shame. I watched as she placed the floral tray down on the coffee table and returned to her seat. How could he know what he knew and still love this woman? 'I was just explaining to Simon, love, how you needed some reassurance after giving birth to Emma – someone to tell you how beautiful you still were and someone to appreciate you properly.' Mum nodded approvingly at the talking puppet she'd created but remained mute. 'James stepped in and provided what you needed, didn't he love? Well, at first, it was exactly what you needed. I know you won't be able to understand this, Simon, and at first I honestly didn't think I could get my head around it either but, well, as I said: it's complicated.'

'I honestly don't see what's complicated about it at all. You should have left her: simple as that. Emma and I could have stayed with you and I'm sure we'd have been just fine.'

'Well, things between your mother and James changed. You see, son, your mother fell pregnant. James bolted, of course. He's always been a high flyer in the business world but he's selfish and arrogant: he's no family man. He was only ever looking for a bit of fun – albeit in the wrong place – and he wasn't ready to take on the responsibility of a child.'

'Y- you have another kid?' I was looking at Mum now, furious that she could have kept something like this from Emma and I for so long. 'Well, where is this kid? Did it go to live with Uncle James?' Mum's chemically-enhanced face stayed rigid but tears began to drip reluctantly from her eyes. She looked at Dad, and he at her. There was something between them that I couldn't make sense of. 'Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?'

'Please, Simon – your language,' Mum scolded quietly.

'Oh I am sorry but I think there are rather more fucking important things to discuss here other than my fucking language! What the FUCK is going on? Where did this illegitimate child disappear off to?' April squeezed my hand tightly but I brushed her away. I wasn't looking for comfort; I was looking for answers. 'Does Emma know about any of this?'

'No, your sister doesn't know anything. About any of this mess.' Dad glanced over at his wife. 'Unless there's anything _else_ you haven't told me?' Mum shook her head and looked down into her teacup. Christ, she really could play the wounded victim when she wanted to. Dad continued: 'I mean, we didn't expect to keep it from either of you for this long. Of all people, we expected Emma to twig – I mean, she's so bright,' Dad said, blinking back the water brimming in his eyes. 'It was so hard. We tried to treat you just the same as Emma but every single time we looked at you, all we saw…all we still see… I mean, God, you're the spitting image of him, Simon.'

'Of WHO?' And then it hit me. All at once. Not slowly and steadily, not seeping into my consciousness at a fair pace, so that I could take it in and begin to make sense of it. No. More like a punch to the stomach – the kind of punch that sucks all the breath out of your lungs and leaves fire burning in its place. Simon _James_ Bramwell.

On the journey home, April hardly said a word. It was as though she had a sixth sense and could perceive exactly how I needed her to behave around me at any particular moment. She turned up the radio to an almost deafening volume and skipped to a different station every time a DJ started talking. Whether it was 1950's rock 'n' roll, some sappy boy-band or Classic FM, I didn't give a shit. As long as it was loud enough to drown out my own thoughts, it was fine by me.

Sunday 19th May

Number of beers consumed: 15

Number of voicemails from 'Home': 4

Number of hours slept: 2

Cons added to piggybank: 1 PRETTY MASSIVE ONE

Monday 20th May

Number of calls made to phone in sick for work: 1

Number of beers consumed: 7 (Annoyed – sleep took over drinking time)

Number of voicemails from 'Home': 2

Number of voicemails from Emma: 1

Number of hours slept: 7

Cons added to piggybank: 5

Tuesday 21st May

Number of calls made to phone in sick for work: 1

Number of beers consumed: 13

Number of voicemails from 'Home': 1

Cons added to piggybank: 9

On Tuesday night, I received a text message from Helen, my Head of Department, asking whether there was any chance I might be able to make it into work for Wednesday, since it was the last lesson all English teachers had with their Year 11 classes before they sat their GCSE exam on the 23rd. It didn't seem like too much to ask, so I stopped drinking at 2am like a good little boy.

On Wednesday morning, I limited myself to two breakfast whiskies (still on my best behaviour) and veered into the car park fifteen minutes late. Luckily for me, my tutor group had waited reasonably patiently for my arrival and hadn't alerted anyone else to my absence. I registered them and told them to bugger off to Period 1, while I prepared myself for 11 Excessive Pricks: my first and only actually important lesson of the day. None of the other classes were preparing for exams and therefore did not matter to me, or the school, until the end of the GCSE period.

Courtney Weston and her twin brother Charlie were the first to arrive. 'Nice tan, Courtney; how did you know orange was my favourite colour?'

'What?' Courtney asked. She looked nervous and was carrying a revision guide for what was undoubtedly the first time in her life. It was probably for the best that most of them would be nervous; their anxiety might attract attention away from the fact that I was clearly in no condition to be teaching.

Kyran appeared next, violently pushing a rather pudgy and red-faced student called George into my classroom. 'Come on fatso – get in yer lesson,' Kyran was taunting. 'Get in there, lard arse!'

'Kyran!' I slurred.

'Yes sir?'

'You shouldn't bully people for being fat…they clearly have enough on their _plates_!' I suppose I should've spotted that it was all going a bit wrong when he laughed, I laughed, and I openly received his appreciative fist bump. George looked at me with such disappointment you'd have thought I ate his last bloody KitKat. But unfortunately, I didn't stop there. The comments I'd usually keep inside my head kept lurching rebelliously from my mouth. It felt so good to allow the alcohol to melt away my brain-to-mouth filter.

Charlie: 'Sir, I think I made a mistake takin' English GCSE. There's too much borin' shit to learn.'

Me: 'Charlie, if you really want to know about _mistakes_, you should ask your parents.'

Kyran: 'I can't be arsed w' this, sir. It's all bollocks. Me dad reckons I don't need any GCSEs anyway; he hasn't got any and he's done just fine without 'em. He says all teachers are just pansies who tell yer that y' need good grades so they can look good and keep their jobs.'

Me: 'Kyran, you know your family tree? Just out of interest, is it shaped like a cactus?

Kyran: 'What? No. Why?'

Me: 'Because everyone on it is a prick.'

Mason: 'I don't get any of this, me. Which one wrote _A Christmas Carol_ and which one wrote _Roman &amp; Juliet_ again?'

Me: 'It's Rom_EO_ and Juliet for a start.'

Mason: 'What is?'

Me: 'For Christ's sake. Were you, by any chance, conceived on a motorway, Mason?

Mason: 'What?'

Me: 'Nothing. I just heard that's where most accidents happen.'

Mine wasn't exactly the most productive revision session going on in Conifer High that day, but I can honestly say I've never enjoyed a lesson that much in my life.

Thankfully, Period 2 was one of my P.P.A. periods – in the teaching world, that stands for Planning, Preparation and Assessment. It's the three hours a week teachers are supposed to spend marking books, planning lessons, and conducting the general bullshit administrative tasks that they get stuck with. Today, my P.P.A. stood for Post-Pissed Apathy. Before sneaking in a quick nap at my desk, I decided to check my e-mails. Of the 97 I had received in my absence, only one was of any interest: a message from Reception reported that a parent named Cheryl Fenwick had called the school eager to arrange a meeting with me to discuss her daughter Morgan's progress. _Oh she's eager all right – dirty little slut._ I called her immediately and managed to catch her between a manicure and a facial peel. She was free to come in on Thursday after school, as she had a gap between appointments from 4 until 5:30pm. I told her it'd be my pleasure to fill her gap and hung up while she was still giggling. It genuinely wasn't until that point that April even entered my head (for which, I blame my choice of breakfast). I shut the blind that covered the window into my classroom and settled my head down on my desk for a nap before Period 3. If shagging Cheryl seemed like a bad idea when I'd sobered up, I'd ring and cancel the meeting. If it didn't, then what April didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

'Mr Bramwell! Excuse me, Mr Bramwell?'

In my sleep, I'd been dreaming of a small gnat, buzzing around my head and refusing to leave me alone.

'Mr Bramwell! Do you realise where you are?' The gnat sounded angry. I swatted it away with my hand.

'Ouch! For crying out loud. MR BRAMWELL! WAKE UP THIS INSTANT!' I opened my eyes to see Mr Greggan, one of the older and stuffier Deputy Heads employed by Mr Harding to ensure that he himself never actually had to leave his office in order to run the school. Within seconds, I was being marched to Mr Harding's office like an insubordinate child. The march came complete with an accompanying lecture from Mr Greggan: '…impossible to get good staff nowadays…wouldn't have stood for this kind of ineptitude, I can tell you…what on Earth you think you're doing…be lucky to end up with just a suspension…' He dumped me on a chair outside the Head's office and waddled off to annoy someone else. The chairs outside Mr Harding's office were made of black plastic and were purposefully hard and hostile, since anyone ordered to sit on them was considered unworthy of comfortable seating. The chairs were also positioned so that anyone occupying them could be seen by the Reception; this way, the office staff could keep an eye on the offenders and any visitors could see that this was a Head-teacher who liked to deal with his rule-breakers directly. If he hadn't been a total tool in every other way, I suppose it would've been a reasonably impressive strategy.

It took about fifteen minutes for him to come to the door – lazy bastard. I bet he wasn't even doing anything other than attempting to leave me squirming. Disappointingly for him, I was doing nothing of the sort. In fact, I struggled to keep my eyes open. I knew falling asleep again would hardly play in my favour, so I spent my time chomping the entire pack of breath mints I kept in my jacket pocket and winking over at the more attractive members of the office staff.

Finally, he announced himself by clearing his throat. I looked up from my tiny, plastic chair. Harding's bulging stomach was inches from my face and he was gesturing for me to enter his office. 'If you will, Mr Bramwell.' John Harding's office was decorated to reflect the kind of school he desired: neat, orderly and sterile. His large, grey desk housed only a black pen pot, his computer and a black paper tray filled with carefully stacked documents. I sat down on the small chair in front of his desk and wondered whether he'd consciously selected it to be several inches shorter than his large, leather seat, thus ensuring his ability to look down upon his perpetrator at all times. 'Mr Bramwell, I have heard some rather alarming reports about your behaviour in school today. Would you care to tell me what's been going on?'

'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, John.' I smiled and cocked my head to one side, stealing April's move. She employed it whenever she wished to dare you to do or say something and it always worked. Always.

'Well, let's start with Period 1 today. I hear that the lesson didn't exactly go well? And please, call me Mr Harding.'

_Come on, dickhead. No euphemistic bullshit this time. At least have the balls to give me a proper bollocking._ 'Again, you leave me nonplussed, John. I actually thought it was a rather outstanding lesson with Year 11.'

'I'll cut to the chase, Mr Bramwell. There have been reports from some the students in 11XP that you were behaving in a manner unbecoming of a teacher. Concerns were also raised about the potential odour of alcohol on your breath, although I must say that I cannot personally smell anything untoward at this moment.' He waited for me to respond but I said nothing. Considering my inebriated state, I thought it best to keep interactions to a minimum. After all, that's what lawyers were always advising their clients to do on those stupid police dramas Jay liked to watch. I had the right to remain silent. 'Anyway,' he continued, pretending that my lack of co-operation didn't bother him, 'whilst we get this matter cleared up, I am hereby suspending you from duty. I will escort you off the premises, and thence suggest you get yourself home and to bed. Since we break up for half-term on Friday, I do not expect to see you in this school until after the holidays. I will be in touch regarding the details of your reintegration, which shall commence after half-term. Do you have any questions?' I did not have any questions. I actually couldn't believe that my punishment for being pissed at school was to receive a longer holiday than everyone else. Did the other staff know that was all you had to do to get extra days off?

Harding and his bulging stomach walked me all the way down the stairs and out into the car park. As I left, he shook my hand as though we had just completed some kind of successful business transaction. I sat inside my car and stared at the row of birch trees that lined the concrete. It suddenly dawned on me that I now faced eleven days, maybe more, alone with my thoughts. And at that moment, inside my head was not a pleasant place to be.


	6. Chapter 6

**June**

Gold for Cash

P.O. Box 7781

London

W1A 1ET

31/05/13

Dear Mr Phelps,

I am sorry to inform you that we will be unable to accept the _Only Fool and Horses_ DVD box-set that you sent to us through the post. As we have made extremely clear to you in the past, we are only able to accept items that contain actual gold (i.e. chemical element AU). Thus, although I am sure that many reviews do claim this product to be "comedy gold" as you stated in your letter, this item remains entirely unacceptable.

On several occasions, you have posted products that cannot be valued. Each time, our dedicated staff members have explained our company policy and have outlined examples of products that we are able to accept. However, your behaviour continues and it is beginning to become a strain on our resources. Therefore, I am forced to ask you to refrain from contacting our company again. Should you continue to send in unacceptable items, further action will be taken as deemed appropriate.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs B. Marcroft

(Customer Services Manager)

Not even Jay being threatened by the long-suffering folks at Gold for Cash could cheer me up. May had been a complete shitter of a month on so many levels, and I was just about ready to cash in my ticket to those Pearly Gates. Not that I believed in Heaven. I actually felt sorry for the morons who believed that dead people floated out of their bodies into the clouds, where they were greeted by a giant, bearded dude in sandals, who handed them a halo and told them to go nuts in their own personal paradise. Plus, if Heaven (in the traditional sense) did exist, wouldn't that mean I'd have to spend eternity with all the people I never actually liked on Earth in the first place?

My musings on spirituality were consolidated at University. In a familiar moment of procrastination (that is, the main art learned at University by any undergraduate), I came across a term called 'existential nihilism'. I felt as though I had finally found a place for my beliefs. I discovered how religion was borne out of people's fear of death. In order to comfort themselves century after century, people continue to seek out meaning in the existence of the human race. They are unhappy to leave questions simply unanswered and therefore begin to manufacture stories and theories that tell them what they want to hear: everything's going to be alright; what goes around comes around; and when they die, good people go to heaven. Despite the comfort I found in laughing at such foolishness, I still struggled to tolerate that kind of religious bullshit.

Sunday 2nd June signalled the end of half-term and therefore my final day off work. The holiday had been eventful, but not in a good way: my cons piggybank was practically overflowing. Firstly, Mr Harding had been in touch, outlining the conditions under which I would to return to work. Every word of his e-mail was torturous.

You will attend a weekly counselling session with a qualified occupational therapist, as ordered by the school. Your discussions with him/her will be 100% confidential, but the therapist will notify the school in the case of a missed appointment.

Lesson observations will increase, beginning on a weekly basis as of 03/06/13. Members of the Senior Leadership Team will observe your lessons and offer feedback. This feedback will be passed onto me. You will be given notice of at least 24 hours (via e-mail) before each lesson observation. Any issues reported as a result of these observations will be discussed in detail; appropriate support will then be put in place until improvement is evidenced.

You will be monitored closely by your Head of Department over the next half-term. This monitoring process will include: informal lesson drop-ins (no notice provided); a weekly 'weigh-in', during which you can discuss any triumphs, concerns, etc. on an informal basis with your Head of Department; and regular appraisal of your students' exercise books, to ensure that work is being marked effectively (according to the school's marking policy).

Even if I did manage to jump through all of those hoops, there was still no guarantee that my school life would go back to normal or that I wouldn't be let go. With 6 rent-paying months left until my rooftop adventure, I needed to keep hold of my job. Despite the fact that playing to Harding's tune might actually induce daily sickness, I wasn't so selfish that I planned to leave Jay in a financial mess.

Unfortunately, work wasn't the only part of my life heading up Shit Creek. April had called at the flat to see me during half-term and that visit hadn't gone so well either. When I first heard Jay letting her in, I assumed she'd come to check that I was ok; with everything that had been going on, I'd neglected to contact her since The Road Trip From Hell. I wondered whether she'd heard about what happened at work and rushed over to cheer me up with sex and a platter of deep-fried treats. However, as she burst into my bedroom, it became clear that her motive wasn't anything to do with making me feel better.

'How COULD you?' she screamed.

'Erm…hello to you too.'

'Well?' She was staring at me so intently I thought her eyes might pop out of her head.

'April, I have no idea what you're so worked up about. What's the matter?'

'Oh, I don't know, does the 23rd of May mean anything to you?'

'Huh?'

'Thursday last week, Simon – the 23rd of MAY!'

'I really don't know what you're talking about. And, to be honest, now isn't exactly a good ti-'

'Not a good time? NOT a good TIME? Oh, I can tell yer all about not havin' a GOOD TIME! What about waitin' around on yer BIRTHDAY for a bloody card to arrive? Or maybe flowers? Then thinking: _Ooooh, I know – he's not sent anythin' through the post 'cause he'll be coming round after work to surprise me instead!_ So, y' get all dressed up, even straightening yer HAIR, which yer HATE, but y' do it all because yer want to look gorgeous for the big BIRTHDAY SURPRISE – whatever that might be. So, it gets all the way to six o'clock in the evenin' and yer sittin' there all dolled up and ready to go but – guess what? Can yer guess? Eh? He STILL hasn't arrived. Yer gettin' hungry, but you know you 'ave to wait in case he's takin' yer out fer dinner. 8pm comes and yer still ALL ALONE. You told yer family yer'd be busy w' yer boyfriend all night,'

_Boyfriend?!_

'…and it's too embarrassin' to call them now and tell 'em he's stood yer up. By 11pm, that first day of life as a 26-year-old has been WASTED. Totally FUCKING WASTED. Yer biggest achievement has been eatin' two BLOODY litres of BLOODY cookie dough ice-cream!'

'April, I di-' I tried to interject but she cut me off.

'Oh no, no, no – I'm not finished yet! The next mornin', after yer birthday, you end up thinkin' that maybe his no-show was all a big ruse to throw yer off the scent, and that he'll be round after work that night instead. So, what d'yer do? You wait. And you wait. And you WAIT. Try doin' that for ALMOST A WEEK, Simon, only to find out that yer own bloody boyfriend doesn't actually GIVE a SHIT!' Her eyes swam and blue mascara stencilled patterns down her cheeks. I was still reeling from her use of the B-word. Apparently, I'd managed to lose a father and gain a girlfriend in the same week. Neither of these revelations had come with a warning - or even my permission.

While April composed herself, I tried to explain that I'd had a lot on my mind; for God's sake, she had _been_ at Mum and Dad's with me. She had _seen_ some of what I'd been through. According to April, however, she knew what it was like not to know who your real parents were – therefore, that was not a valid excuse. Being suspended from school the day before her birthday and consequently refusing to leave bed for almost an entire week was apparently not a valid excuse either. I didn't even bother pointing out that I wasn't sure she'd ever told me when her birthday was. Instead, I just let her storm out of the flat.

So, the worst half-term of my life (at least, it was up until that point – little did I know what was round the corner) came to an end. The only silver lining to the entire fiasco was Jay. He watched me slob around wearing the same jogging bottoms for days on end, refusing to leave the flat and replacing all meals with Budweiser, but not once did he press me for information or even ask me what was wrong. Some people might perceive that as a lack of caring. I interpreted it differently.

Pro: Having a flat-mate who understands the need for a bit of bloody privacy.

By Sunday afternoon, I was determined to pull myself together. If I didn't head back into work in a mildly fit state, I'd be sacked for sure. I tackled the process in stages.

Step 1: Have a shave. Don't get me wrong – if I'd managed to grow a big, bushy, Tom-Hanks-in-Castaway sort of mane, it would have stayed without a doubt. Unfortunately, all I ever managed to produce were patchy clumps of fluff that made me look almost pre-pubescent.

Step 2: No alcohol. Not in the afternoon. Not before bed. And certainly not for breakfast.

Step 3: Eat something green. Something proper. (The spinach on top of takeaway pizza probably didn't count.)

Step 4: Face the voicemails I'd been ignoring all week.

After completing Step 1, it dawned on me that it was going to be difficult to achieve Step 4 without breaching Step 2. With this in mind, I made an extra strong coffee before punching the voicemail code on my keypad. Emma was up first; I took a deep breath. 'Simey, it's Emma. I still haven't heard from you and I'm starting to worry. Look, I really am sorry for the way I spoke to you. I was out of order and I realise that now. Also, if you don't want to tell me about that piggybank thing, then I understand. Ignoring me is not going to solve this though! If you get chance, please call me back. I really need to talk to you. Henry's being a bit of a- well, things on that front haven't improved. Can you just, please, just call. Ok? Bye.'

BEEP: YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED.

Dad's voice came next. 'Simon, it's me. Your mum and I are going out of our minds with worry; you really shouldn't have just stormed out of the house like that. I doubt you were even safe to drive – I mean, you were probably in shock, understandably. Listen: there's so much we still need to talk about. Give us a call when you get back to Sheffield. Please, son.'

BEEP: YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED.

Number three was from Dad as well. 'Simon, can you just give us a call to let us know you got home safely? I've tried your house phone but I can't get through. Alright…waiting to hear from you.'

BEEP: YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED.

The messages continued in much the same way: mostly from from Dad. All apologetic. He thought Mum's affair was his fault – that none of this would ever have happened if he'd just paid more attention to her after Emma was born. Instead, he'd buried himself in his work and now he had to live with that regret for the rest of his life. He apologised for James walking out on me before I was born, even though that wasn't his fault either. He explained how he'd stepped in and accepted me as his son. How they hadn't even told their friends and family members the truth. He said that all they'd wanted was for life to carry on as normal, but it'd been so hard to watch me grow up and look more and more like James every single day. He apologised for the way in which I'd found out about Mum and Uncle James; Mum must have told him everything – about fucking time. He told me how sorry he was for blaming my reclusive teenage behaviour on my hormones and how he wished he could go back in time to sit down and ask me what was really bothering me. Even though it would have humiliated him to know that I knew, he wished he could have helped me through. He even congratulated me on wrecking James's hand (his brother had always explained it away as an accident that happened at work) and jokingly said he now planned to take care of the other hand some day.

The final voicemail featured a less emotional version of Dad: 'Simon, me again. Look, I appreciate that you need some time to process all of this and that's understandable. Just please remember that we're here if you need any help getting through this. You can call or visit anytime. I mean that. Oh, and your mother's asked me to remind you that Emma still doesn't know about any of this. We really would prefer if it stayed that way – at least until after the baby's born. Mum pointed out that we can't be putting Emma under any strain - not in her condition. Ok, son? I hope you understand. Speak soon, hopefully.' _Great. Nice to know it only takes a few days for their number one priority to be back on top._

I'm not sure what I expected to gain from listening to the voicemails. I'm not sure why I thought they might make me feel better or to help me accept the things I'd been told. Admittedly, it did feel pretty satisfying to have everyone falling over themselves to apologise to _me_ for a change. Plus, at least I finally understood why I'd never felt good enough, always been second best behind Emma, always felt like the black sheep of the family. Why animosity flamed in Mum's eyes whenever she saw me: me, the child she never wanted. The child who sent her precious James running. Yes, there was an explanation for all that now…but experiencing catharsis didn't make the truth any easier to swallow.

When I actually looked at the evidence, Dad had been right; it was pretty impossible to understand how I hadn't figured the truth out for myself. Uncle James and I looked so similar we could be mistaken for twins: over 6 feet tall, mousey hair, broad shoulders and square jaw. Hazel eyes, too – not striking blue like Dad's and Emma's, but not deep, chocolate brown like Mum's – just a sludgy mixture of green and brown. Like mouldy sausage-meat. As if our similar appearance wasn't enough of a clue, there was the fact that I'd actually caught him and Mum at it myself, albeit almost sixteen years after my conception. I shuddered at the thought. I guess it's easy not to see something when you really, really don't want to acknowledge it's there. Maybe conscious ignorance was a skill I'd learned from Dad. Or was I supposed to call him Robert now? No. James might have produced the swimmers but that did not make him my father.

I went to bed that night trying to figure out how my relationship with Emma changed in light of this new information. Obviously, when you share one parent, you are classed as half-brother-and-sister. However, James Bramwell and Robert Bramwell came from the same genetic line, so that surely increased us up from half-siblings? Was there any such thing as three-quarter-brother-and-sister? Sleep snatched the train of thought away from me before I had time to decide.

By the time I arrived at school on Monday morning, I'd turned into an overnight celebrity. Groups of staff hushed their conversations as I passed and there were more eyes on me during morning briefing than there were on the Deputy Head who was actually delivering the thing. Since so little happens in your average high school on a day-to-day basis, any actual gossip spreads like wildfire. As it spreads, it also becomes subject to Chinese whispers; each busybody adds their own little tidbit of made-up information to spice the story a little. I was intrigued to see what heights my story had reached in my absence.

Being self-obsessed adolescents, most of the students in my classes had forgotten that I'd even been off school before the holidays; in Teenage Land, a week of half-term is a very long time. Even the few who did remember my time off seemed too scared to ask about it. However, when one over-confident little arse-hole asked me if it was true that I'd got in trouble for shagging Miss Spalding from Geography, I needed to find out exactly what my Chinese whispers entailed.

At lunchtime, I went to track down coffee-breath Noreen in the staffroom. After five minutes of listening to her spout on about how much I reminded her of her own son, Colin, I was able to get to the point. 'Noreen, I just wondered what sort of things people have been saying about my little, erm, extended holiday? I'm guessing everyone knows I was suspended?' She'd been so eager not to bring the subject up and to act normal that she blushed a little and fiddled with her egg sandwich. 'It's all right, Noreen, honestly. I really want to know what people have been saying. I mean, you'd want to know if people had been talking behind your back, wouldn't you?'

Jackpot. She opened up like a Catholic at confessional. 'Oh Simon, there were stories flying about all over the place by Wednesday afternoon! Kyran Kershaw was harping on to anyone who'd listen that you'd called his family a bunch of,' she lowered her voice and moved closer to me – so close that I could taste the Nescafé – 'wankers. A bunch of wankers! Can you believe it? He's going to 'get you' for that, apparently. Courtney Weston was informing people you were on drugs; she was genuinely convinced as well – telling everybody. A few of the staff had seen you being escorted down to Mr Harding's office by Mr Greggan and _some_body swore they heard him tell you that he'd really 'caught you at it this time'. From that, a certain young teacher from the Art Department decided Greggan was using code language because it was clear you'd be caught having you-know-what in school! Ridiculous, of course, but so is the curse we call hearsay.'

'So, that's it then? That's not too bad, actually.'

'Oh no, dear! I'm afraid not. Those rumours were just the start of it all. By the time we all went home for the holidays on Friday afternoon, you'd: publicly threatened to have all the members of the Kershaw family killed; snorted a line of cocaine from your desk whilst teaching Period 1; _and_ made your way around several female members of staff, preying on them like a sexual predator.' Noreen's face was hot with embarrassment now. She scratched at the eczema between her fingers anxiously, awaiting my reaction. I couldn't help it. I literally burst out laughing. I laughed so hard my ribs hurt. Granted, it wasn't that funny, but I hadn't exactly had much comic relief of late. The staff room fell quiet, as all eyes turned on us. Noreen's face flushed deeper and I stood up to leave her to her cheese and onion crisps. (Seriously, the woman with the bad breath chooses egg sandwiches and cheese &amp; onion crisps? No wonder nobody wanted to sit next to her in the staffroom.) As I moved to walk away, she tugged at the sleeve of my shirt. 'Simon…you never told me! What did you actually do? I mean, you said yourself that he suspended you but…what for?'

'You've got all the stories, Noreen. Take your pick.' I winked at her and sauntered slowly out of the staff room, painfully aware of the gazes following my every move. Why the hell not give some boring, middle-aged saddos something to talk about on their lunch-break? Plus, everyone knows the coolest teachers are the ones who come with a back-story.

Pro: My accidental reputation as a bad-ass.

The rest of the week wasn't a total disaster, but it was probably the hardest I'd worked since I first trained as a teacher. On the plus side, the chaos kept me almost entirely distracted from what was going on in my 'family life', if I could really even call it that anymore. Committed to keeping my promise to Jay, I carefully tracked both the positive and negative consequences of my new rock star status within school.

Pro: Since everyone at work now thinks I am a violent, drug-sniffing lothario, people dart into classrooms as I pass by just to avoid me. I barely have to converse with anyone anymore.

Pro: Year 7 pupils are now too scared to make eye contact with me during lessons, let alone ask reams of mindless questions.

Pro: 4 extra P.P.A. periods per week - thank God for Year 11 buggering off to begin their unfulfilling lives of ASBOs, hairdressing apprenticeships and petty crime.

Con: Almost all 4 extra P.P.A. periods being filled up with 'monitoring meetings'.

Con: Having Harding up my arse every 5 minutes. (Not literally: if I were to turn gay, I'd rather shag a male sheep than him.)

Con: First lesson observation scheduled by ancient-looking, beige cardigan-ed Deputy Head called Lynne.

Pro: Lynne – the lovely old bat who graded my lesson as 'Good'.

My rollercoaster week took a steep nose-dive on Friday when the time came for my first school-ordered counselling session. Harding's view was that I shouldn't miss any teaching time in order to attend my appointments: since the Health Centre was a 30-minute drive from school, that meant my sessions would have to take place _after_ school. To piss me off further, he told me that the only time my designated therapist had available was 4pm on Fridays. I wondered whether it was a test, waving a red rag at my anger management issues to see whether he could get me to burst and just slap him around his shiny face. If I did, I would thereby enable him to fire me on the spot. I would give him no such satisfaction; instead, I toddled off at 3:15pm on Friday with a fake smile plastered all over my indignant face.

I arrived at the Health Centre fifteen minutes early in the hope that I would be rewarded for my punctuality with early release. A grey-haired, weary receptionist informed me that my therapist, Rosie, was with another patient until 4pm and sentenced me to the waiting room until my allotted time. The centre functioned as a normal Doctors' surgery, and therefore housed the usual assortment of wheezing old people and burnt-out mothers cradling howling babies. Having forgotten my headphones, I endured the meaningless chitter-chatter that predictably ensues whenever a room is filled with strangers.

Old woman: 'Oh, he's cute as a button, isn't he?'

Exhausted mother: 'Mmm…most of the time! *Insert fake laughter here* His name's Alfie but he's not very well at the moment. No, you're not very well, are you? No, you're not my ickle sweetie pie.'

Old woman: 'How old is he?'

Exhausted mother: 'Can you tell the nice lady how old you are? Can you? Awww. He's 19 months.'

Old woman: 'Oh, what a lovely age!'

I opened my mouth to point out that the bag of wrinkles would've uttered that phony response regardless of whether she was told he was 2 days, 19 months or fifteen years old; people talk utter shit when they're asking about other people's kids. However, before I had chance to share my views, my name flashed up on the oh-so-modern-announcement board that reduces the need for lazy health professionals to actually get off their arses and walk to collect their patients from the waiting area. I bit my tongue and hurried to Room 4: the sooner we got started, the sooner I could go home.

The walls of Room 4 were white and clinical, displaying the usual posters about flu vaccinations and free screening protocols for chlamydia. One wall, however, was covered in children's pictures: scribbled drawings of monsters in red and black. As Rosie would later explain, the pictures were drawn by school children she treated for anger management and behavioural issues. She encouraged them to draw the 'Anger Monster' who lived inside them and encouraged them to do nasty, hurtful things. She wanted the children to see the malice as a separate being: one to whom they could assign a name and therefore distance from themselves. The names chosen by these children ranged from _Blade_ and _Shadow_ to _Fred_ and _Agatha_. Allegedly, once these psycho-kids no longer saw their monster as an inherent part of them, they were able to tell it: no.

_NO, Shadow, you will NOT stab Sarah's finger with your pencil lead._

_NO, Agatha, do NOT shove Thomas's chicken finger up his nose so hard it bleeds._

This was the kind of horseshit that came out of Rosie's mouth on a daily basis. Rosie was attractive and fresh-faced with long, brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She couldn't have been out of University for much more than a year and was stuffed full of stock phrases she'd learned by rote, some of which she dutifully churned out as she explained how the sessions would work: 'No judgement here'…'Open and honest communication'…'Free space to share _our_ thoughts'. Her hippie-jibberish made it difficult for me not to walk straight back out into the germ-infested waiting room. When she asked her first question:

'So, Simon, why do _you_ think you're here?'

I knew I had a choice to make. Option one: tell the truth – illegitimate child, under the influence at school, suicide plans – the whole shebang. Option two: imitate repentance and Get Out of Jail Free. Option two seemed far more appealing.

'Well, Rosie, I'm here because I acted in an inappropriate way in front of some of my students. I called them distasteful names and made fun of them in a way that was both unprofessional and offensive. However, my suspension from school gave me a lot of thinking time and I have accepted that my attitude needs to change. I love my job and I respect both my students and colleagues immensely. Finally, I am ready to show that.' _Can I go now?_

'Tell me about your suspension, Simon.'

'Erm, I just did.'

'Tell me how it made you _feel_.'

'I felt, erm…' _Excited by the extra days off?_ '…embarrassed…very embarrassed of my behaviour.' She smiled, nodding, and rolled her hand in a keep-going motion. 'And I regretted my actions almost immediately, but I realise I can't take them back and I'm ready to move on as a changed man.' _Is that right? Can I go now?_

'Simon, I can see that you're anxious about the time but I want to assure you that there's no rush. We're here from 4 until 5pm every Friday for what will undoubtedly be several weeks. You just take your time. Relax.'

_Several WHAT?_

'So, tell me more about how your suspension made you _feel_. And remember: we are in absolutely no rush.'

Con: Rosie. And her stupid bloody questions.

It had been 10 days since April had blustered out of my flat in a birthday-related rampage. Assuming that whatever P.M.T. issues she'd been suffering with were long gone, I drove over to Heart &amp; Sole on Saturday lunchtime. I'd survived an entire week of monitoring at school and I was ready for some recreation. When I arrived, the bearded man (who I now knew to be April's dad, Darren) was working and I was conscious to make a good impression. I asked super-politely whether it would be all right for me to go straight upstairs and see April, labelling myself as 'an old friend from school' once again, just to be safe. I still wasn't sure how I felt about her use of the B-word, as I didn't think it was a very good idea, yet I could hardly tell him of his daughter's actual link to me: fuck-buddy and suicide-bucket-list-cheerleader.

'I'm afraid April's not home at the moment,' he said in his stronger-than-hers Yorkshire accent.

'Oh, right. I see. Do you happen to know when she'll be back?'

'I'm afraid not, mate.'

'Could you please tell her that Simon came to see her?'

'Ah hah.' He placed his spatula down and stopped what he was doing. 'So _you're_ Simon, are yer?' The arch of his eyebrow didn't exactly imply she'd been speaking of me kindly. I made my excuses and got out of there as quickly as I could. And it wouldn't have been too bad if I hadn't seen April ducking down to hide under the windowsill when I glanced up at her living room on my way out.

'Hi, is that Mrs Fenwick?'

'Why hello, Mr Bramwell. Long time no see,' Cheryl's silky voice prowled down the phone.

'Indeed. Sorry to call so early but I was hoping we could reschedule that meeting we set up before half-term? Regarding Morgan's progress?'

'Yes, I was very disappointed to hear that you were off school when I came in; I was so looking forward to having a good, _long_ chat.' She paused to allow the undertone of her words to sink in. 'Morgan tells me you've been unwell recently, Mr Bramwell?'

'Yes, but I'm feeling much better now.'

'Oh, well that is a shame: I was hoping I could nurse you better.'

'How odd,' I replied with visions of Cheryl's healing hands beginning to whirl around my head. 'Now that you mention it, I think I actually can feel a headache coming on…4:30 tomorrow OK for you?'

That's one way to cheer up a boring Monday morning.

By the time Tuesday lunchtime dawned, I was in two minds over whether or not to keep my appointment with Cheryl. Firstly, I'd received an e-mail letting me know that Mrs Graham, one of the Assistant Heads, would be coming to observe my lesson with 7SB the next day. That meant I had a lot of preparation to do overnight; if I taught the lesson in my usual way, i.e. 15 minutes of silent reading (the English teacher's God-send) followed by whatever came first off the top of my head, I was sure to fail miserably. Secondly, I kept feeling as though I had to justify to myself that it was fine for me to be seeing Cheryl, which was so idiotic because I knew it was fine. April hadn't called for almost two weeks, she'd ignored me when I'd tried to visit her and it wasn't like I'd ever given her any inclination that we were more than just friends with benefits. Plus, it was my life: why should I answer to anyone? Exactly. I could do whatever I wanted.

The guilty feeling was still loitering at the back of my mind when I went down to Reception to collect Cheryl. She'd cut her blonde hair shorter but looked just as good as always, if not better. Her cherry lipstick matched both her nail polish and towering high heels perfectly. She wore a nude trench coat, in spite of the day's warmth; I began to wonder whether she had some kind of malfunctioning hypothalamus. I wouldn't ask, though. That was hardly a sexy question.

Once we reached the English corridor, I was irritated to see that other members of the department were still in the building. The teacher-training student was hunched over her desk weeping into her hands and Helen, my Head of Department, was surrounded by spreadsheets in the classroom next to mine. Usually, Cheryl and I would close the blinds in my classroom and conduct our business in the dark, hoping no-one would see us. However, this visit called for a new plan. I unlocked the store cupboard and gestured for Cheryl to get inside quickly before she was seen. With the door closed, there was barely enough room for both of us to stand up straight and the fluorescent light was blinding. Rolls of brightly coloured display paper lined one side of the room, whilst stationery-stacked shelves stuck out at awkward angles from the other side. It wasn't exactly a candlelit dinner for two but, then again, Cheryl didn't have what you'd call high standards. She surveyed her surroundings and shrugged. Loosening the knot from around the waist of her trench coat, she let it fall to the staple-covered floor. Underneath, her body was clad in a short, white nurse's uniform complete with red cross and fake stethoscope. She pulled a little white hat out of her pocket and smiled. 'Mr Bramwell, if you could just unzip your trousers, I'd like to conduct a quick examination. I'm sure we'll have you feeling better in no time.'

'Simon? I asked you what you think about that?'

_Shit. I've zoned out._ Rosie had been talking for several minutes about some flower-power article that promoted the use of meditation to combat stress and I'd barely listened to a word. My second Friday afternoon counselling session wasn't going well.

'Is there something on your mind, Simon? You seem a little distracted today.'

_Distracted? Oh no. What could I possibly have on my mind other than keeping stupid, mandatory appointments with you? I mean, it's not like I've recently found out that my dad's not my real father and the man I've always thought of as the world's biggest dickhead actually is instead. It's not like I've noticed how full my cons piggybank is becoming and therefore had to comprehend that December 2013 might actually be my last month of life. Or that I've realised how frighteningly large my bucket list still is and that I've only got 6 months in which to complete it. Oh, and I'm certainly not distracted by the fact that April seems to have turned against me and, in true I'm-a-total-twat-Simon-Bramwell fashion, I decided to deal with her rejection by sticking my dick in a middle-aged slut whom I pity almost as much as I fancy. No, no, I've got absolutely nothing going on in my head to distract me, Rosie._ 'I'm fine. What was it you wanted to talk about?'

Rosie wanted me to tell her about my lesson observation with Mrs Graham and how I felt about my Grade 3 result. In teaching, you see, there are four possible outcomes at the end of an observation:

**Grade 1: 'Outstanding'.**

**Basic Translation:** You're a fucking teaching God and everyone in the world should bow down to you and worship you. You have the ability to be cheerful, inspirational, authoritative and super-organised all at the same time, whilst working 80+ hours a week. In reality, you cry in your car every night on the way home to your house full of cats. You have no social life and everyone in your department hates you for setting the bar too high and making them look like lazy shits.

**Grade 2: 'Good'.**

**Basic Translation: **You're a try-hard but you draw the line at kissing arse. You care about your job and you put in more hours than you should, but you are able to achieve a reasonably good work/life balance. You look upon those who are 'Outstanding' with pity, as they tend to sleep for one hour per night and look forward to lunchtime because they get to sit in the school canteen to eat lunch with their favourite students.

**Grade 3: 'Requires Improvement'.**

**Basic Translation: **You probably realised a long time ago that teaching is a thankless job. The kids you teach don't care about their grades, so why should you? Society labels teachers as lazy, work-shy moaners who get too many holidays, and you intend to live up to that reputation. You put in the minimum amount of effort that is required to keep your job but everything else in your life comes before teaching.

**Grade 4: 'Inadequate'.**

**Basic Translation:** You really have taken it too far now. The line between laziness and pure incompetence has officially been crossed. Get out of the profession immediately.

I explained this system to Rosie in the hope that she would see Grade 3 was exactly where I desired to be in the teaching world. In fact, if life were graded in the same way, then I'd be happy to have a life that 'Requires Improvement'. Rosie raised her eyebrows and scribbled furiously onto her pad of lined paper when I said that. Come to think of it, she always did that a lot whenever I was talking.

Although Rosie had it right in sensing my mind was elsewhere, she had the source of the preoccupation all wrong. I genuinely didn't care about the result of the observation; it was my liaison with Cheryl that had thrown me off kilter. Since Tuesday evening, I'd had a strange feeling lurking somewhere inside me that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Like an itch that was just out of reach. My encounters with Cheryl usually felt incredible; she was so smooth, so soft, so well-groomed - and her nurse's uniform had sent her hotness soaring to new levels – but something was amiss. Even while Cheryl's stethoscope had been trailing down my chest, followed by her hot, salty mouth, all I saw was April. April's silky lips. April's clumsy wave. April's fleece pajamas with the sheep jumping over the fences. April had nowhere near the refinement or the expertise of someone like Cheryl, so I couldn't understand why I'd be thinking about _her_ at a time like that. Yet, I could think of nothing else. Even the next day at work, once sleep should have distanced me from my conscience, I still couldn't concentrate. What I needed to focus on, in order to keep my job, was teaching Creative Writing and Media. I needed to mark the pile of assessments from 9SF. Input the data from 9SF into the school system. Discuss the upcoming 'Next Steps' day with the Year 11s in my tutor group. But whenever I attempted to concentrate on those things, April stomped and danced and silent disco-ed all over my thoughts. I didn't want to see her face in my mind: pale, freckled and smiling. I didn't want to think about the way her tongue lolled out to one side when she concentrated. Or the weird games she concocted. Or the way her brimstone hair shone in the sunlight, thin and brittle from years of bleaching. I especially didn't want to think about the way I'd pushed Cheryl against the wall of the store cupboard and closed my eyes, imagining April instead. Or how I would feel if I found out that April had, at that very moment, been having some store cupboard fun of her own with someone else. I convinced myself over and over again: it wasn't cheating if you weren't in a relationship. And we were not in a relationship…officially. Could I just keep pretending it hadn't sent a little spasm of electricity up my spine when April had used the B-word? Yes, I could. I brushed everything I was feeling neatly away under my increasingly lumpy rug, and told Rosie I wasn't feeling well. Apparently, being unwell was the only form of escape deemed acceptable. Release time from second appointment: 4:38pm. Result.

I ate my microwave lasagne early, although I wasn't hungry, and made sure I was in bed with the light off by the time Jay got back from work at half 7. I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.

On Saturday morning, I awoke to the sounds of someone trying to violently bash the front door off its hinges. I glanced over at my phone: 9:45am. Jay would already have left for his 10-6 shift, although I could hardly rely on him to get off his arse and answer the door when he _was_ at home. Heaving myself out of bed, I shuffled towards the source of the incessant sound. Outside in the hallway, jiggling up and down with excitement, was April. 'MORNING!' she shrieked, whizzing past me and into the flat entirely uninvited. She wore a baggy, grey hoodie over the top of what appeared to be a green sundress. Gigantic yellow sunglasses conquered her face. 'Coffee?' she shouted over the sound of the beans she was already grinding in the kitchen. 'Bloody hot in 'ere, isn't it?' She stretched out the sleeves of her hoodie and pulled it forwards over her head. As her arms became visible, I noticed that they were covered in what looked like scribbles of red biro. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that they were not pen marks but thin, bloodied scratches.

_Oh fuck - she's an undercover Emo. She listens to whining, self-confessional music and thinks that dressing in black makes her different from the other 7 billion people on the planet. She cuts herself and then blogs about it online. But where's her dark make-up and shabby, black hair? Is this the start of the Emo in her? __Could my missing her birthday really have upset her so much that she'd resort to self-harm? __Is this my punishment – for her to come to my home and parade the scars in front of me?_

I was struggling to decide how to tackle the subject when she noticed me staring. 'Oh, I suppose I should explain these? Ha, it's SUCH a funny story! I've been up since half 5 this morning and in the park from 6. The little buggers did NOT want to get close to me, as you can see! In the end, I had to go t' supermarket and buy a bag of mixed nuts. Laced those with a little bit of a powdered sleeping pill and…voilà!' April brandished a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her sundress and flattened it out on the worktop.

April Barnes' Bucket List

High five a monkey.

Use a funny fake name at Starbucks.

Be happy forever.

Go Trick-or-Treating.

Stroke a squirrel in the park.

Get those braces with the cool multi-coloured elastic bands on.

Sleep overnight in a zoo.

Eat dinner with strangers in a restaurant.

Moon somebody important.

Hire two private investigators and get them to follow each other.

Find my parents.

'Well? Aren't yer gonna congratulate me, Simon? I did it! Number five - all ticked off! How are you gettin' on with yours?'

It was all a little too much to take in. Last time I'd seen her, she'd been yelling at me for leaving her lonely and humiliated on her birthday; then, she'd refused to see me when I'd visited the chip shop; and now…this? She handed me a hot, brimming mug. 'April, I…I don't really understand what you want from me.'

'Want from you? I don't want anything from you, silly. I'm here to help you! Yer never gonna get through that list without my help. Now, where is it? Let's see where we're up to.' She skipped into my bedroom to retrieve the list and lined it up next to hers.

Simon Bramwell's Bucket List

Have sex with a ridiculously hot girl.

Make some new friends.

Steal something.

Visit Mum, Dad and Emma for a final time.

Have a fight.

Get a tattoo.

Tell my moronic Head-teacher what I actually think of him and his 'policies'.

Tell Dad the truth.

'See what I mean? You 'aven't made any bloody progress without me, have yer? Now, go and get dressed. We're goin' out.'

I didn't even have time to drink my so-strong-it'll-send-your-testicles-rocketing-back-up-inside-you-coffee before she dragged me out of the flat and walked me to a part of town so grimy I was afraid I might catch something just by breathing in. 'Nearly there!' she kept sing-songing, as we spiralled deeper and deeper through dark alleyways and past boarded windows. 'Usually, yer'd need an appointment - well, at most other places anyway. But I know a guy, and he said he'd fit yer in but it _had_ to be this mornin'.' I had no idea what she was babbling on about, but then again I rarely did. She finally stopped in front of 'Inkspiration': a small, shabby tattoo parlour with two cracked windows. Behind the cracks, the display wall flaunted countless designs from Tweetie Pie and Betty Boop to pictures of angry skulls and celebrities' faces. Without any caffeine pumping around my body, it took a second for the purpose of our visit to dawn on me.

'Oh, Christ, no – April – I didn't really put in on the list intending to actually _do_ it. I mean, I've always thought of maybe getting one, one day, but I can't just- you can't just- I mean, you have to think about-'

She completely ignored me and started running her finger along the images. 'So, what theme are we looking at? There's a whole section on cartoon characters over here?'

'Erm, April, you may not have noticed but I'm not actually an eight year old child.'

'Animals? A butterfly? Or a dolphin?'

'I'm also not female.'

'Somebody's name written through a picture of a heart?'

'Annnnnd I'm not a chav.'

'Tribal designs?'

'Oh please.'

'Simon! Yer over-thinking this whole thing! Come on, let's just get inside and you can make a decision on the spot. Honestly, it'll be fun!'

'Look, I just can't. I'm sorry. Tattoos are permanent - you do realise that? I can't walk in and do this on the spur of the moment.'

'Yeah, I know they're permanent, Simon. But, for you, _permanent_ probably only means 6 months. So, what's the big deal? Trust me; this is a brilliant idea!' Refusing all logical objections, she pushed me forcefully through the front door.

Looking back, The Day of the Tattoo was a little like an out-of-body experience. I floated up out of myself and watched this ordinary guy – just a secondary school English teacher – nowhere near cool enough to walk around sporting ink – walk into that dingy, scruffy place. He spoke to a large, leather-jacket-wearing, bearded man for less than five minutes, and then took his t-shirt off. Topless, he lay down on a discarded dentists' chair and pretended to feel no fear. Next to the chair, a saffron-haired woman laughed and joked and held his hand. She pretended not to see him flinching every time the needle perforated his skin, and she ignored the glittering in his eyes that threatened his manhood. Most importantly, she didn't let go of his hand for one second until long after the ordeal was over.

After almost an hour, the mousey-haired English teacher and the woman who carried the sunshine with her wherever she went stood in front of the mirror in the back. They laughed when admiring the memento now stamped across his shoulder blade:

Just say 'fuck it' before you kick the bucket.

And he didn't regret it: that permanent reminder of the feeling he had that day. Not once. Not even on the day he died.

The next ten days of June flew by in an April haze. With her birthday-related dismay forgotten, April and I spent as much time together as we could. I worked hard for a few hours after school each day, so that I could fit in as much evening time with her as possible without losing my job. As a result, my lesson observations increased to a Grade 2. Obviously, this improvement meant nothing to me but at least it got Harding off my back and gave Rosie hope that I was beginning to, as she put it, 'see the error of my ways'. To be honest, I think any man would see the error of his ways if given a dose of April: relentless, imaginative enthusiasm and the sex drive of a nymphomaniac on Speed – no wonder she had a positive effect on my motivation. She seemed to have a positive effect on Jay too, who morphed into a grinning idiot whenever she came round. April wasn't the only thing making Jay smile, though. The doctor looking after his mum had been in touch and reported good news. Apparently, the most recent, gruelling cycles of Chemotherapy they'd put her through had reduced the size of her most aggressive tumour and she was feeling better than she had in months. Jay even went out and bought her a £95 bouquet of flowers to celebrate; unfortunately, he neglected the meagre size of his pay-packet and had to borrow most of it from me.

To mark the 25th June, April wanted to host a Halfway to Christmas Party at her flat; apparently, it was an annual tradition. Jay and I received our invitations in the post several days prior to the event, and it took all of my self-restraint not to point out to her that people over the age of ten don't generally send postal invites to a party. I also had to fight my natural urge to ignore the R.S.V.P. instruction and decline the event in my usual fashion: by simply by not turning up. In the past, that method had proven to be most effective. However, since April was so ridiculously excited about the whole thing, I not only found myself planning to attend but even agreed to help her with setting it all up.

Finding Christmas decorations during the summer is not easy. After spending Saturday 22nd enquiring at many of the city centre's shops (and being stared at like we were deranged lunatics in the process), we managed to convince the manager of a local supermarket to let us case out the old stock he'd stored away in the back. I'd love to say our success was all down to my wonderful way with words, but I think it was more strongly influenced by the huge, pleading eyes of April, who looked far younger than her 26 years. Oh, and the fact that her pink bra was almost entirely visible under her white vest top. Inside the supermarket stockroom, we found the following questionable selection:

13 silver baubles (assorted sizes)

10 metres of ugly, green tinsel

9 Santa hats

17 gold-sprayed pine cones

And a three-foot high plastic snowman intended for outdoor use only.

April was absolutely thrilled. She hugged the store manager and immediately reached for her purse. Due the hug (I assume), the horny bugger requested £10 for the lot. I wondered whether a flash of boob might have got her everything for free, but she'd paid up before I could suggest it.

Unfortunately, the 25th fell on a Tuesday. Jay, in his ecstasy at being invited somewhere by an attractive female (there's a first time for everything), had booked the Wednesday off work the moment the invitations sailed through our letterbox. For a teacher, nonetheless, there is tragically no such thing as a pre-booked day off. Following my previous alcohol-related school incident, I thought it best that I remain sober for the evening.

Usually, Jay's outfits consisted of food-stained jogging bottoms and a t-shirt featuring one of his favourite bands. When he came out of his room that evening dressed in a pair of clean, black trousers and the only shirt he owned, I knew he was out to impress. My outfit was largely similar to his, only I had now taken to wearing white t-shirts underneath my shirts: a visible tattoo stating the words 'fuck it' on your shoulder blade was hardly a desirable asset in the work place.

The invitation stated that we were welcome to arrive any time after 6pm and that food would be served at 7:30. I, obviously, intended to arrive a couple of minutes after half 7, but Jay insisted we set off at 6 in order to 'impress all the hot girls with our punctuality'. I started to wonder whether Jay's perpetual singledom was due to the fact that he had literally no idea what women look for in a potential mate.

We arrived not long after 6pm to find that Heart &amp; Sole was shut. All the lights were off downstairs and there was a note on the door apologising for the closure. It explained that the owners had to attend a family function and would be back at work first thing the next morning. Jay wasn't in a good way - not only had he carried a 24 pack of beer under his arm for the entire journey, but he'd also walked quickly for what appeared to be the first time in his life. He needed a moment to soothe his wheezing lungs and to mop the torrent of sweat from his brow, so I sat him down outside the front door and moved around the corner to throw grit at April's window. She was at the door in moments, excitedly ushering us in and jabbering about the preparations she'd been busy making all day. At the top of the stairs we were greeted by Wibbles (the three-foot plastic snowman) leaning precariously to one side. Apparently, he'd been Christened after April had attempted to carry him up the stairs by herself and smashed a section of his base on the doorframe. 'See?' she asked, poking Wibbles in the stomach and watching him lurch back and forth. 'He wibbles around!' Our host, dressed in a reindeer onesie, complete with antlers on the hood and hoof designs on the feet, led us through into the silent living room. Once we sat down on the sofa, the oppressive silence made it clear that we were a) incredibly over-dressed and b) the only ones there.

'So, can I get you boys somethin' to drink?' April asked.

'Beer, please,' said Jay. 'And lots of it.'

She smiled. 'Simon?'

'Erm, yeah. I'll have a beer too – but just the one. I'm not drinking tonight.' The human reindeer toddled off into the kitchen leaving Jay and I to assess our awkward surroundings. The entire ceiling of the living room had been decorated with scraggly, tattered paper-chains that looked as though they'd been cut out by children with advanced motor neurone disease. The table that usually lived in the kitchen had been moved into the centre of the lounge and covered with April's purple sofa throw. In the middle of the table, a large plate was stacked high with golden pine cones and silver baubles. Six places had been set, each complete with individual Santa hat and tinsel-wrapped chair. My hopes for a not entirely excruciating evening lifted. Places set: six. Current number of people present: three. 'April?' I called through into the kitchen.

'Yeah?'

'Who else is coming tonight?'

'Oooooh, that would be tellin'! Let's just say that our surprise guests should arrive any minute now!'

I looked over at Jay who winked back at me. 'It's girls, Simon. I can tell by her voice. Hot girls! Who else would she invite to party with _us_? They're probably friends she's known since school or something – hot twenty-somethings with loose morals. Right, let's put some music on and down a few beers before they get here; it's up to us to set the mood.' Jay hoisted himself off the sofa and plodded to the corner of the room where April's T.V. and speakers had been pushed right up against the wall. He plugged his phone into the out-dated sound system and selected a particularly explicit rap album. The lyrics seemed to revolve around 'them bitches' being 'all naked up in here' and 'doin' 'em up and down, round and round'. I was about to question whether his choice of music was entirely fitting for what was looking more like a dinner party than the wild house party we'd anticipated, but Jay jumped in: 'It's all about subliminal messaging, Simon. Trust the Phelps Lurve Machine. All four ladies will have their pants around their ankles before we've finished the first course. Guaranteed.'

April bustled through from the kitchen carrying two beers just as the door to the flat creaked open at the bottom of the stairs. 'Can we come up?' enquired a cheerful, female voice. April squealed and ran to greet the newcomers.

Jay stood up and rubbed his clammy palms against his trousers. 'Here we go! Hold on to your hats – this night's about to get steamy.'

April reappeared in the hallway, beaming with pride as she began her introductions. 'Simon, Jay, this is my mum, Claire, and my dad, Darren.'

_Holy. Shitting. Fuck._

'Mum, Dad, this is Simon, my boyfriend, and his lovely flatmate, Jay.'

There it was again, picking at the scab of the wound it made last time: the B-word. I mean, I liked the girl, but she was going to have to stop throttling me with that word. I wanted to dive headfirst out of the window onto the street. Maybe this was it – my ideal moment to commit suicide. I was just sizing up the length of run-up I'd have between current standing position and window when Claire grabbed my hand in hers. 'It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Simon. We've heard so much about you!' Then, she moved quickly on to Jay, clasping his sweaty palm and shaking it eagerly. I glanced over at April's dad, who was eyeing me warily from across the room. He still hadn't said a word.

_Of course! This is his first proper impression of me. He's challenging my manliness. Fathers want a strong, masculine partner for their daughters; I must prove myself by not breaking first._ Accepting the challenge, I met his glare and held it. _This is macho stalemate. I am proving myself. I must not communicate first._ Our silence grew louder and louder as conversation between the other three dried up. All eyes were on me. I could practically hear April's silent pleading for me to introduce myself, but this was a situation no woman would understand. Manly deadlock. And I was winning. I could see the crinkling of Darren's brow, the wavering of his lips, all the indicators telling me that he was about to break first, when Jay swept right over to him with a friendly handshake.

'Darren! Pleasure to meet you. Sorry about this dickhead over here!' Jay thumped his chubby hand on my shoulder. 'Get's a bit nervous around new people, don't you mate? He'll thaw out eventually - just give him a few minutes.'

'Nervous?' Darren scoffed in response. 'He looks like a bloody deer in 'eadlights! At least one of yer can bloody talk. 'Ave yer got any more of them?' Darren signalled towards the can of lager in Jay's hand and Jay nodded. 'Come on then, lad. Let's crack a few open.' The two new bloody BFFs headed over to the fridge, leaving me – the strong, silent deer in headlights – with April and her mum. After a few seconds, April broke the silence.

'Is Hannah drivin' over separate then? I thought she'd come w' you guys.'

'Oh, she couldn't make it sweetheart,' Claire replied. 'Someone called in sick for their night shift and Hannah offered to cover. She's workin' 8 while 8. I'm sorry, duck. She sends her love, though.'

At the mention of a girl's name, Jay's ears pricked up from the kitchen. 'Who's this delightful-sounding Hannah creature, then?'

Claire pulled her purse from her battered, black handbag and opened it to reveal a picture of their two daughters. She pointed towards the woman hugging April and smiled. 'Hannah: our eldest. She works in a care home for the elderly. Floral Hill. D'ya know it? Got a heart of gold, that one.'

Jay's initial reaction was to recoil in horror, and I could hardly blame him. Staring back at us, her arms slung around gorgeous, round-faced April was the oldest, frumpiest thirty-something female I'd ever seen. A mass of grey/brown frizz covered her head, stopping just above her masculine jawline. She wore thin, wire-framed glasses of such an incredibly high prescription that her goggly eyes appeared to bulge against the lenses. I shot Jay my best you-better-be-fucking-nice glare and he recovered quickly. 'Gosh! Yeah. Mmmm, heart of gold. You can tell just by looking at her. Such…_kind_ eyes.'

During the elongated pause that followed, Jay's rap album reached an exceptionally offensive song. Angry lyrics blasted out across the room: 'and I fucked you so hard on that three-legged chair/You thought you cheat on me?/Bitch hoe: don't you fucking dare.' Claire's mouth dropped open in horror. I ran over to the speakers and turned the volume knob so violently it nearly came off in my hand. Of course, what I hadn't realised was that rushing to solve the problem made _me_ look like the guilty one. I turned around to see April's parents staring at me in dismay, Darren's hands clamped firmly over April's ears as though she was an innocent little six-year-old girl.

'Erm…ok! Maybe we should listen to some Christmas songs instead?' Claire suggested. 'It is a Christmas party after all! Maybe that would be more, err, fitting than your music, Simon?'

Jay shook his head in slow, melodramatic disapproval and put his arm protectively around April's mum. 'Yeah, _Simon_. I think Christmas songs would be more suitable than _your_ music.'

I was calculating exactly how much worse I would make the situation if I punched Jay in the face when April started shepherding everyone towards the table, intending to glaze over the prickly atmosphere with lashings of Christmas food. Jay and I hung back, gesturing for Darren and Claire to choose their seats first. Once we were out of earshot, Jay whispered: 'Mate! Did you see that picture of April's sister? You definitely picked the right one; what a munter that Hannah is! Honestly, I think I threw up in my mouth a bit when her mum whipped that monstrosity out.' And that really was something coming from a man whose last sexual encounter had cost him over £250.

Dinner was, at best, uncomfortable and, at worst, traumatic. The only Christmas songs Jay had on his phone were wishy-washy religious ones sung by a local choir his mum was a member of. The group had recorded a CD years ago and sold it around their area to raise money for some charity. Somehow, the choral warbling about 'God's first light' did even less to relieve us than the rap music had. We all reacted to the burning discomfort in different ways: I embraced the if-you-got-nothing-nice-to-say-then-don't-say-nothing mantra; Jay immersed himself in food (his standard reaction to pretty much any situation, emotional or otherwise); Darren barely said a word, yet continued to stare at me across the table like he'd just seen me on an episode of Crimewatch; and Claire tried her best to fill any silences with appreciative food-enjoyment noises. Meanwhile, April spent most of the night running to and fro the fryers downstairs. The menu for our Halfway to Christmas meal was as follows:

Starter: Deep-fried King prawns with sweet-chilli dipping sauce.

Main: An entire deep-fried turkey (I kid you not – I thought Jay was going to tumble off his chair with excitement) served with assorted vegetables.

Dessert: Deep-fried Christmas pudding with custard.

'Wow, April – this is amazing!' Jay mumbled through a mouthful of pudding. 'Honestly, you've really opened my eyes to the possibilities of cooking at home. Simon, I think we should get a deep-fat-fryer!' Despite the evening turning out rather differently than the MTV Beach Party scene he'd planned in his head, Jay actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He washed every course down with a couple of cans of beer and managed to make some polite conversation with April's parents. I, on the other hand, was residing in my own personal hell. I couldn't drink to numb the pain, not unless I wanted to be fired the next day. I couldn't speak for fear of making an even worse impression than I already had. And I couldn't concentrate on anything other than the cheap, wiry tinsel wrapped around the back of the chair; it felt as though it was trying to claw its way through the back of my shirt. I spent the entire three-course disaster keeping my mouth stuffed with greasy chunks of batter and avoiding eye contact with anyone.

Thankfully, April's parents announced that they needed to be leaving once the final course was over. I think we all knew that they could've stayed longer – they had closed the shop downstairs especially – but I was hardly about to try and convince them to stay. Although I'd never met a girl's parents before, I was pretty confident that my debut had not gone well. Claire embraced me in an awkward hug, slapping her stocky frame against me and holding it there for longer than necessary. Standing at not much over five feet, her face nestled uneasily around the level of my nipples and I could barely hear her muffled voice telling me how nice it was to have met me. While Jay and April cleared the table, April suggested I walk her parents out. Once we reached the shop floor, Darren told his wife to go and start the car. The two of us stood silently as Claire left, shutting the ringing door behind her. From upstairs, I could hear the return of Jay's rap music - louder this time. For a moment, I wondered whether Darren was going to kill me and shove me in the deep-fat fryer whilst no-one was looking. 'Look, Simon,' he began, 'yer seem like a nice enough lad – aside from yer taste in music that is. Just…be careful, reyt? Our April is more- well, she's fragile, even though she might not seem it. We've been through all this before, boyfriends an' all that, but it never ends well. She needs someone dependable. Someone who's gonna stick around through the good times as well as the bad times. And, lad, there _will_ be bad times.' He looked at me as though he was sharing some deep secret that I needed to treasure.

_April, like all those born with two X chromosomes, is bat shit crazy? Yes, Darren, you're not the first person to notice that._

Running his hand through his brown, thinning hair, he sighed. 'All I'm sayin' is: if it's just a bit of fun yer after, there are plenty of other girls out there that yer can 'ave fun with. It might be time to move on, eh?' He shook my hand and walked out of the shop.

By the time I returned upstairs, Jay and April were dancing around the living room and waving shot glasses above their heads. Feasting on my brief absence, they'd become bored of clearing up and instead invented a drinking game whereby they took a shot of tequila every time a swear word was used by one of the rappers on Jay's album. Judging by what I'd heard of the songs so far, it wouldn't be long before I was cleaning somebody's vomit off the floor.

Thirty minutes later, sickness avoided, Jay collapsed onto the sofa and started snoring like a broken chainsaw. Considering he weighed several stones more than April, I was surprised to see that she was still standing. Well, that is if you count 'standing' as leaning over the back of a chair giggling and sloshing alcohol over your own feet. I wrapped her arm around my shoulders and started dragging her unresponsive body in the direction of her bedroom. It was only 11pm but she was roughly a 3am level of pissed, so I decided just to slump her down on the bed and leave her in her reindeer onesie. Once all four limbs had made it onto the mattress, I turned to leave.

'Simunn?'

'Yes, April?'

'You nice.'

'Thanks. Now go to sleep.'

'Simunn?'

'Yes, April?'

'Yer know how sum people say life – that life – itsa gift?'

'Mmm?'

'Well, wif most gifts, you getta gift receipt. Don'tcha?'

'Yeah, I suppose you do.' _What the bloody hell's she rambling about now?_

'And, if yer had it – gift receipt – for yer life, then yer could take it back. Get- get new one. Exchange.'

'I guess you could.'

'Simunn?'

'What?'

Her voice was softer now. 'I think I wan' take mine back. I wanna swap. New life. Don't wan' live dis one neemore.'

'Ok, April. You've had too much tequila. Get some sleep now. You'll feel much better in the morning.'

'No more black days, Simunn. Don't wan neemore black days.' Her pale eyelids drooped and I pushed a few strands of hair from her face. As she drifted into sleep, she mumbled my name a few times and I wondered whether to just shake her awake and tell her about Cheryl. Get it all out. Being so drunk, I figured she might not remember in the morning. It was a win-win situation: I'd have a clear conscience and she'd have nauseated memory loss. But she looked so peaceful lying there, so serene, I decided it would be too cruel. Plus, was there really any point in telling her? In just over 6 months, none of it would matter. We were enjoying some casual, short-term fun together and that was the end of it.

I'd heard of people watching other people sleep before but always assumed they were perverts or paedophiles. For the first time in my life, I finally understood why someone might do such a thing. As she slid deeper and deeper, her breathing slowed and shallowed. I followed the rhythmic swell and fall of her chest as it moved in steady patterns. One of her hands lay unfurled on the mattress beside her and I placed my hand inside it for a moment and squeezed. Her mouth opened and a gentle stream of dribble began to saturate the cotton of her pillowcase.

Looking back, although I refused to acknowledge it at the time, you could probably pinpoint that as the moment I fell in love with April Barnes.


End file.
